Purple Bee of Brie

by Karl Peters


A road less travelled bumps and lumps can throw less crafty travelling chums but bee and brie with cornflake three rode on astride a cosmic tide through all the wild and curly highs and all the dumpy frumpy sighs until a stump where ferrets meet to speak of all the troughs and peaks that level mighty with the meek. A ferret squeaks we’re all unique and all agree except the bee who sees three ferrets facing three as mirrored matches in a sea of drops that think to be unique a drop must be apart and free while bee could feel the truth of seas that only waves could be unique. On to climb a peaky Hill sharpened to a sneaky point by priests who felt that ample hills misled their flocks who blamed their groins for finding in such ample hills the valleys and the hidden trails the only test by which all men are always ever doomed to fail.


The pointy priests pointed their anointed piste and greased the peak with grease released from geese obese from feasts of streaky bacon treats. And when the Pilgrims from beneath climb the peak to seek relief the priests retreat to caves beneath and out they peek without a squeak to watch the weakened freaks compete to mount the pointed greasy piste. And so it was that none could pass the sharpened peak to promised lands and so it stood and so it passed, so long lived priests, so long their mass, so long to sultry summer streaks where men and maid could live like beasts, so long the growing greener grass that lay untouched beyond the pass.


A walnut whip a skinny dip the grip of thick hypnotic hips luscious lips and bloomers stripped heartbeats skipped and slippers slipped wicks long dipped no sooner lit as Bacchus sips from sewers rich and brewers slip upon their drips the few are they who strip to pip and fewer they who dip their bits though Baptists claim it trips the switch and artists famed for flaming lips swear by dipping in the nip then skipping swift the green grass whips the itches from your weary bits then lying bawling in a ditch you wish the sky would only blink and when it does you wonder did it blink or did it chance a sneaky wink? Oh greener grass when shall we pass to taste such fruits that never last and pass from this ungodly fast so said the sinner to his ass whose answer passed in sighs of gas.


Blue as sea and green as tea Brown towns drowned in summer heat pointy priests atop their piste neutered dogs they found in heat until the day of yeasty beasts who Rose to stop the pointy priests. Here we are the beasts of yeast flouring forth and bread to breed of seeds released when easter breezed to seize the weak on bended knees and raise their gaze from priestly feet to feel the prospect of the free. The beasts abubble scooping thoughts from rubbled dreams led the free to pastures Green through a sea of parted priests whose toenails failed to brave the yeast. Bee and brie and cornflake three passed the priests and passed the piste behind a flock a waked in trails of pungent plumes of beastly yeast.


Bee was wombed within a bloom abloom with flame set light through roots that strained so far they gained unstained the troubled core of worldly pain and craving more, strained with force and gaining more, reached the doors that roots had never reached before, the roots then bored beyond the doors where souls worn sore without remorse are torn in two and then in scores and here the flaming flower sourced a well of pain yet full of force, to fledge and forge from molten gore a bloom to buzz of purple ore attuned to gusts of booming storms and buried farts of feral worms and every zephyr ever formed of breath or breeze to freeze or warm the purple ore absorbed them all until the day the perfect storm bore upon the sleepy world and woke the bee within the ore to bare his wings and soar adorned in purple torn from roots that scorned to lose the fruit but keep the core.