The Obscure Poets Club

Dolphins search butterfly formations,
for fleeting novels.
Herbivorous jaguars roar the blues.
Effervescent scorpions mime the beat.
From where, do their delicate rhythms emanate?
The valley of a trillion spectrums dominates the horizon.
Its pulsating crystal forests reflect highland lakes.
Mountainous cactuses sprout from opalescent beaches.
Stars roam crevasses like lost pigeons.

In a cathedral cave,
Graham H Goal Posts Smith,
the high priest of the Obscure Poets Club,
the Terrestrial Scuba Diver himself,
the original Mr Ultra Cool, Ice Cold,
points to a spherical piano.
It hovers like the death star renovated by hippies.
“Play it with your mind Azalea” he urges.

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