Like a doctor in underwear, the decade began.
Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably.
Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check.
People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists.
A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May.
A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things.
You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dollops, crushing intent. A wave of pity associates with crinoline like an apron that could be the next political move. Storage consists of wet bars, and the clutter of Soviet intention.
Children of cocktails bury mesmerized mice in downy softness. Allegiance is priceworthy. Pick a planet to annoy, grey leader.
The poem, scarred by Star Trek (The Next Generation), flirts for the new decade. New decades promulgate new headaches. A doctor wears the pants of morose technology, tuckered out by golf stretches and moonbeams. Cocktails and crunchy things provide situational ethics for the blast off generation.
Bulked up servings of crunch, snap, and apt phrases drone from the crinoline depths of the future train pathway, long before pwned. Indeed, campers sit in the festoon of broken crackers, klaxon cocktails, bungled wobble. The sentence is incentive now. Adjectives are loose.