Blues is the new ruse to beauty and bust

No more entangled rules on the floor

Just to dance is to make do with lust

Not enough flavour to anchor inshore


Of the flotilla that shapes

The rapes of the distant forests

No one hears the forest canapes

Being eaten like a trim salad zest.


No one shares the blue statue of Ember

My shining florentina an emblem

Of Shem

and the first boat

That started the sheer-

Ing of the countertop called

The Earth.


Copyright B E Saunders 2016

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