poem || Brandon Theis

The Folly Ball
 

Trotting blotter fraught with clots, finding what other's sought.

Beet oven 53 degrees, deers out in the blind, caught in flocks of golden grease, deep feudal slots, and creased sheets. Dipped twice and dried just right.

So many tabs stuck in teeth, drums as borders of loving and rubbing, plumbing the lightening righteous.

Four corks floored on shrill shocked naughty crotch mouth foolery. Stomp drilling the muse, harming the money's fork.

Bending vibes all the beastly way down, forge grounded, tonal bleeding crests, wakes of the stress less, free the blessed makers hominy.

Fragile as the whisper flaming, crude and grudged, virtual peripheral; ethereal, tethered, scorn harness.

Tort world pinching at the nerve ferry, dropped miraculous sub optimal cloak clothing, pulse moaning shouts remainder echos: venerated vertebrae vernacular, spectacular spectrum syntax masters, act as fasteners.

Binding the blight of lost lives winding down, the alley folly encased as pathways forgotten, troll mastication hewn in roasted trilobite epiphany.