Samba

I felt like a bulldozer

Pump out funky slime like a dallied caterpillar of deconstructionism while Margie slinks around twisting, whirling, waltzing to the robo-beats of Gandhi's harvest moon,

blinking in thermonuclear rage at the efficacy of militaristic pacifism from rainclouds of acid. 

      Arm the cannons, leg up the inconvenience in splashes of yellow exuberance  

we go four on the dance-floor shaking away existential dread, crying like bleached cockroaches about revved down coastal implications. 

                       Excuse me sir, 

but may I have a spoke of your time, 

   to consider the crackling gears turning beneath you revolving in synchronization to the robo-beats of Gandhi's harvest moon. 

   sickle aside, 

Reeving Constance will preside over this year's human cook-off, 

pregnant with neon fantasies of twirling delicacies. Drop the beat here.

Author's Note

Criticism is always welcome any and all.