The Spoonbill Generator

Soar, churlish repetiteur!

Day breaks like a condor's egg

Yolk running a sticky marathon

Craking upon the pavement

Where I poured your paraffin

High above the condor sores

(a joke running back to Xenophon)

Sores or soars, I want to know

Who stole my haunted telephone?

The one shaped like volcanic foam

its ghost wrapped up in cellophane

Tapping lines between the realms

That cultivate the weathervane

Where is all my underwear?

Howled the mute, Bellerophon

Taping lines between the cracks

Twixt cherubim and seraphin

What has happened to my face?

Where have all my features gone?

This is ultimate disgrace!

Nothing left to soldier on!

Contributors: Stacy, Brandt Miller, Gretta, Roland, DaveH, John, Peter, TG.
Poem finished: 15th December 1996.