Topsy Turvy Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

I thought to myself.
If I died tomorrow what would my last meal be?
I pondered momentously.
French fries drenched in yellow mustard,
a vanilla malt topped with a Zanzibar cherry.

Life is an ephemeral experience
where one does not bemoan a
concomitant relationship of friendships sharing peach pie.
Ding dong the brick is gone.
Yippie little mongrel.
That's what I am!

Suddenly an auspicious feeling swoons down my pants,
frigid as an evening troller laying it's fishnet on the horizon of a distant bayou.
The king has laid his cudgel, exchanged his vestment for a fustian,
For I have become a man of the sea,
bound to eternal billows.

Yet I feel no empathy for sorrow,
nor gleam over distress,
For the Topsy-Turvy clouds have fogged my mind,
scoured any remnant of tranquility from my soul,
All that remains is an abstruse kindred-ship of neglect.

And so I endure the silence,
as I seek to mollify a miffed cadence,
A juncture of abjured emotions,
affable this frothy night.

Row, row, row your boat...
gently down the stream......
Duck, Duck, goose.....
How I wonder where you are.

Twinkle, twinkle little star....
See how they run.
Three blind mice....
Life is but a dream.

To love one another is entropic,
For all relationships end up in the gift store of materialism.
Where candor prevails versatility of desire,
Resulting in a fastidious denature of amicability.

I ask myself if my heart beats twice per second in search of love,
Trice for belongingness,
And an eternity for a stifle of nomadic attention.
Then who is to blame?

For when the currents of fire become cast pillars,
And forsake not the pilgrims of urbanism,
There will be a revolt of subconscious adversity,
Becoming of adolescent senility.

For the mast of hearts has tethered toward obliviousness,
While the meadows of our soul have become greener,
Yet the fields of Pompilio serpentine,
round and around the fifth halo of Saturn.

Topsy-Turvy one shot at a time,
That's how lady Conrad became a novel,
Despite the lack of luster that survives,
I am not that friend that you once knew,
But that friend you let go in the aftermath.

So please help me see,
That the secret garden has eyes,
a gazebo or two for the uncanny few,
Who seek credibility in a sophomoric world,
Where pleasantries woo gestures of sensibility.