A thread for making a linked poem

The banjos are not seeking after me,
and piccolos ignore my sprightly stride.
I cannot tell the brass band from the sea,
its volume can be so undignified.

The piccolos ignore my sprightly stride.
The sunlight fuzzes down from heaven's Marshall;
its volume can be so undignifed.
The tulip tambourines remain impartial.

The sunlight fuzzes down from heaven's Marshall,
a bongo circle forms among the weeds,
the tulip tambourines remain impartial
while queen bee gospel singers spread their seeds.

A bongo circle forms among the weeds,
a music stand of trees displays their scores
while queen bee gospel singers spread their seeds.
A soaking rain of notes will clean my pores.

A music stand of trees displays their scores.
I fix my pitch that wavers, slightly wrong.
A soaking rain of notes will clean my pores.
To tuneful winds, I calmly add my song.

I fix my pitch that wavers, slightly wrong
(I cannot tell the brass band from the sea).
To tuneful winds, I calmly add my song:
"The banjos are not seeking after me."

Queen Victoria in the bath.
Queen Victoria cleaning her genitals.

I have always wanted to work for Amtrak.

the ranks of hapsburg might diminish
and cede to plantegenets
we’d war for gism to foul finish
and that’d be gross and wet.

For Vicky's bits (the royal jewels):
a prayer we should be saying
for if we lost the Tudor tools
it’d crimp the Windsor laying

the ranks of Hapsburg might diminish
and cede to Plantegenets
we’d War for Gism to foul finish
and that’d be gross and wet.

(rther)

When time has run out, when it has run away
To mingle with the snows of yesteryear,
The beauty of long-past, time-eaten beasts
That hulk and bulk large in the Natural
History museums, propped by unmagical wires,

That is the time of prayer, the time outside
Of time, the time when all prayers are
answered, and God cannot find his file cabinet.
When wings and words know flight
and blazing desire outpaces blinks.

She
He gives me fever,
Fever when he holds me tight.
Fever -- hang on, fever
only makes me fall asleep real suddenly like,
fever right through the night.
And I don't even notice it, y'know?
He's not like that at all!

He
Hah women ect ect!
Fever is like
    navigation w/ daemons
    being hard at work
    twiddling parts of the
    map while you sleep
    and you run all the while!

Narrator
His mind is not on this conversation for the simple reason he has come down with a nactual fever. Oh noes.

His mind
In the book of Kama Sutra
Splendid organs illustrated,
Carbon-dated, illustrated,
Like a giant, er, where was I?
Anyway, the dated giant,
On a carbon-copied paper,
On the motorway, with lightning
Flashing to light up the sideview
Sidewalk, where the giant factory
Manufactures cows for Leyland,
Solid cows for British Leyland,
They have made this elevator.
Built this solid elevator.
Up, to watch the starlike puzzle,
I have got to solve this puzzle,
Will it do to tell the super-
visor I have seen the lightning?
I must fill this flat with fixtures,
Never seen but concrete fixtures,
Now I think I saw I noticed
Ringo Starr buck Minister Fuller
On the motorway, where was I?
In the flat where Ringo says a
Prayer for Owen Meany Miney
Moe and the delivery people
Put the fixtures in the closet,
Closet that I just came out of,
Filled with fixtures, there's the target,
Put the target on the paper
Try to read the map while twiddling
North to North by dated compass,
North by North to solid compass,
Just to finish off this project,
Got to finish off this project.
North by project, map by fixtures,

Narrator
Oh you get the picture. It'll pass.

Will it do to tell the super-
visor I have seen the lightning?
Will he believe the end is near?
And what will be my orders?
Where do we go from here?
"Saharan Sand Dunes Found on Saturn Moon"
Who knew that Yahoo News
could put it so euphonically?
But there you have it.
Saturn's moon is out—
a pretty bunch of rings
does not a marriage make.

There is so little time left now,
the dust already drifting in,
taking only a moment to inter us,
to leave us to await
the archaeologist's shovel
Eureka! There we'll be!
Curled up in the kitchen
like cold kittens,
like Pompeiian house-servants,
like stones.

Plan B, at the back of our mind
the ace up our haz-mat sleeve—
The Exodus. But who?
Not many, since bringing the Bible full-circle
from Genesis to Genocide,
leaving the Earth behind
in our scorched-earth wake.
But where?

There is so little time left now
to finish off this project.
Soon the Saturn-men will arrive
in search of greener pastures,
only to find the Earth a Saturn
of our making and the worlds beyond it, too,
turned to dust by heedless holders,
green receding to the celestial horizon,
like the rainbow's pot of gold, of green,
of grass and leaves and birdsong.

So long, spaceships, fly!
Take your precious cargo far,
your payload of knuckleheads into the stars.
Ships from Saturn, ships from Earth,
Ships from every fouled orb,
Gleaming like ticks in the twinkling light,
passing each other in the night.

Our eyes are closed tight as new kittens' eyes,
Not seeing the passing of the night,
The dawning news we have come full circle.

Earth has spun us, precious cargo of our bed,
To here, two knuckleheads curled up in marriage,
Heedless of the orb we arrive upon.

It takes only a moment for the sun's wake
To bring us our orders. There you have it!
The twinkling is scorched from the celestial horizon!

And what is new is what is old as Genesis.
Eureka! The light grazes on our moonfaces,
As if on greener pastures, gleaming gold.

Now moonfaced, yawning mooncalves, we
Arise and shed our heedless holdings,
Fling our bedclothes off and make drab the day.