Rambo thinks I’ve got an unnatural fixation
on boring work, health and safety legislation.
I loathe that crazy braggarts sick insinuation
leaping into lakes, from supersonic sidecars,
seconds from organ splattering annihilation,
is the perfect perforation of peaceful paradise.
Risking lacerated limbs and a leaking spleen
is not my means of creating a thrilling scene.
There is no withering of life’s bountiful fruits
in dodging Knievel’s spine shattering pursuits.
I’d rather wander life’s labyrinth with wretches
seeking asylum from illness in acres of sketches,
or lose myself in psychedelic swirls,
orbiting tribes of buxom Goddesses
playing hide and seek in pools of pearls.
It’s usually those riddled with dementia,
who fail to see my craving for adventure.
Adventure minus a tailbone through the brain
risk of parachuting off the Eiffel Tower again.
Passion Fest MTX 9, by Ken Brynan
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