Buoying up what should only be anchored on a seabed,
launching horizon thoughts from a beachy head,
polishing off planks running red in gallons on bloody Mary galleons,
mutinying off bilious dream decks into wavy waters off Albion;
a pirate seagull takes a selfie from a cliff ledge.
Out-of-breath knee-rug centenarians in their Sunday best
blowing out as many candles as possible to show who’s the eldest,
sudden street-sleepers rolling out nicotine-rolled mattresses,
metal-detector treasure-hunting wanderers wondering where it’s at is;
a hypochondriac pigeon twigs it and drops down dead on its chest.
Shuddering scaredy-cats fidgety-pecking bread-crumbs,
cry-baby pram-pushing toddlers make-believing their mums
perfect perchers on rain-dropping bunting over wet pavement stones,
nesty fledgling prodigies playground-beaking on xylophones;
an Olympic swift breaks the all-time record at 32 metres per second.
Up-in-the-branches and away-with-the-fairies for whatever it takes.
a modest million-strong division of camouflaged ambushers awakes,
budget-totting scrimpers’n’savers blowing it all in one fell swoop,
flashy film producing flashers put away for a long time in a chicken coop;
a skylarking starling in mirror-sunglasses sweepstakes.