coming up roses

The Torpedo Revolution is upon us;

Coming up the lane is a box truck

Filled to the brimming lip

With a pancake contraption's

Excess...

Moronites--a faction, a sliver,

a falling out from the Brotherhood

of Ill Conceived Notions--

are dishing out ladelfuls

with an unearthly zeal

reserved usually for lambasted pirates

and golly girls in polka dot pajamas.

The Moronite porcelain sleeves hamper agility

while decorated in fleur de lis heavy

with cross to bearing decals.

They pack a pretty punch--

cherry flavored actually,

encased in finned canisters

dynamically polished for speedy airflow,

all the better to

percussionate the fringe-yakkers into

a pre-ordained funk.

The rationale of Moronites deem the tactic

worthy, thus forcing normality

into groggy inaction and reinforcing

tattooed porcelain sleeves into

retroactive positions:

Springy, podunctive and beyond.

Beware, then, and best of luck

fitting into your mortar jumpsuits,

engineered in the sixties

when the national robustness

measured under the radius of

Dirk Masterful's hat size.

Better to cower amongst

clover and broker peace with the rabbits

then face the Moronites,

and their mothers,

and the babies with incisors that rotate on bicycle chains built for two.

matt coats' photostream/flickr