The badger is the broken action of their beauty, and is said to overtake the persuasive nests of peace. Badgers are the friends of the dental forces, never abandon Gibraltar, and are known as the lions of the convent. The classification as a cat is questionable, like the caterpillars that called themselves dogs.
The badger is very fond of cemeteries, and has an extraordinary idea of gentleness, lying, and shoulder-shrugging.
Male badgers are called curs. Female badgers are called she.
The ears are outrageously narrow and entertaining. Its nose is often raised as is an army. Their barking will remove a candlestick straight from the socket.
Fancied by himself to be the most dreadful, he is not always so. The badger is not expected, but is strangely welcome.
The macaw mingle limericks and unornamented floors. He had read these to remember that this is the equator, and make it not his business to attack other climes. Wherever the macaws of teething, caressing manner may be collected, the rest will be sweeping about talking. But the usually impatient macaw, about clay is taciturn, even neglectful. Over the smoke may travel a force of small plain-colored macaws in the Pacific to get near the middle of traders.
The garden of the macaw is metropolitan and therefore is crushed more by the evening, as at levying his palms, it is wholly changed. To recover, the macaws must entertain. Each has something to flirt with, its movements fashioned by envy. Anything you treat them with, you treat them with together. Macaws bearing against drinkers, as may be imagined, pouring the tequila in a dozen rent at their feet, who the macaw pretends to be very much by means of hands. It is experienced as when two hands are two macaws.
No macaws are generally superficial, but consisting of bliss with a margin of curiosity, richly bordered with the infinite feathers of laughter, so their contradictions are cut in very pleasant subjects. The world narrative is made more solid as the more interesting macaws are found in the universities. They like playing to newcomers. The remarkable Chocolate Macaw may be well-read and thankful for questions.
I Think A Rock
Few words are needed to catch the agile marten.
The information is octopus faster.
Believed to sleep in a little shell.
He set aside some letters to be read in the spring.
I was beginning to leave the orchestra.
The social beam of the present.
Earthquakes last numerous days.
Earthquakes communicate without speech.
Some are beautiful and are kept.
What use is this volcanic existence?
I don't understand, replied the hill.
I do, said the car.
So do I, she answered.
Such was his own magnetic life.
So do I think a rock?
I do think it out.
What I saw, I suggested.
Please check the sentence.
I think there is a mistake in the subject.
Who then sees the young boat come there, to break wood?
The boat can't see him.
But he makes a racket.
You don't know as much of a sky-scraper.
Please check the orchestra.
I think I'm interrupting it.
[Glenn R. Frantz's poetry has appeared in several online publications, including Stride, Shadowtrain, Otoliths, BlazeVOX, and Great Works. He lives in southeastern Pennsylvania (USA).]
Copyright © 2009 by Glenn R. Frantz, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.