Tuckford Bunny Press
© 2009-2019 William Frank | Tuckford Bunny Press |  Selden, NY  |  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication or website may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
                                                                                                                a Bunny The day you can’t be Bunny anymore Renzo comes at nine to saw your stilts, her brothers next to kick you out of doors and stab you in the belly to the hilt. Like a comet, our chroniclers record I sang when broke, I put the time on tilt, you were easy in my arms, I was adored and I had a little nose made out of felt.  Curlicues Taking Notes † Ringworm isn’t pretty and bad girls go to jail. † Gyrovagues were drunkards and roved around Despair. † Some want their whiskey straight; the tightrope act defer.    † It isn’t proper theorem if I have to punch you in the face. † The short way round leads to a broken commonplace. † The animals are lying, see The Fall From Grace.    † Never was a man so going he didn’t tangle up his thread † or be the Boke of Crafte of Dyinge dancing or in bed † the klutz has the touch of cold that ferries on the Dead.    † The whip is our instrument, the floret is our band. † Everywhere in Nature is the flourish of free hand † and every Great Disaster, love, ends with ampersand. Parlo Without Leonie The bridge is down, it rains all day, the sun must have the same flat tire, like poets run out of things to say. The gleam is awful when you’re away. I miss you like the world’s on fire. The bridge is down, it rains all day. The afternoon's in bowtie gray, how the time is mine entire like poets run out of things to say. No matter the parade can play without notes they’ve no desire. The bridge is down, it rains all day. You’re beautiful in every way beyond dreams, trains and empires where poets run out of things to say. This is how our écorché is with your bumbershoot attired when the bridge is down and it rains all day like poets run out of things to say.    The Organ Grinder's JoJo          You say we're employed    but we don't make any money.    In our enterprise of choice    there's nothing noon of funny.    They were sold out of cats?    your crippled Mother says.    Fate made you fat    and I wear a fez.    We hang around the park    in the heat of the day.    You daydream on your box,    I've a chain around my waist.    Is that little monkey tame?    I like rabies.    If you don't want the same    put your money in my jeans    then the tune skips a note    I look you in the eyes    I go for someone's throat...    while you apologize    I stretch out in the sun    and bite the policeman's feet.    We take your cudgelled run    to the end of Mary Street.    To Hell with your shoe.    I eat my grapes and rest.    People are so cruel,    we say in matching vests.    Don't tell me who you love,    that nut-tree is gone.    We've all had something of    Martha "Two Tits" Tomlinson    for time by time the doom    in all the hope we played    for her or just the moon    went a window serenade.    Her light went on then off,    the curtains glad and drawn.    All mysteries are lost,    we're broke again at dawn.    Our hearts are changing place,    the quiet is renewed.    Forgive me, said Faith    and Save me, Solitude. Twiddle       1.    Forget Poem and all his little    Love’s promises and crumbs,    you and I are twiddles    of the same Leman’s thumbs.    Though she cuts us down the middle,    no two so one becomes.    2.    While Love’s the truest concept,    without touch, it hardly stands.    Though both the smallest in our beds    and farthest on the fan,    how close, and loving, we have slept    in each other’s hands.    3.    Lady, shuffle me into yours,    I'll twiddle you into mine,    purls that kiss so much more,    crush, and intertwine.    We come together with back and forth    brisk and leonine.

Fiasco Galante

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Goodreads Giveaway Review

It only took me a couple of poems to feel the flow and pattern of the Fiasco Galante's genius. You truly get a sense of his bond with literature in the beauty of his writing. His poems stretch the mind of the reader; many a time I learned a new word or phrase. His rhyming schemes are clever and fast-paced and definitely humorous. I thoroughly enjoyed "I Would Be Lovely Then a Quick Reply," which I found quite facetious and a nice surprise amidst the rest of the poems. [He} surely has his unique style and is not afraid of showing it off.                                                                ~Tatiana
$14.00, 89 pages
Sample poems follow…  
The   Fiasco   Galante   is   a   book   of   poetry   that   fits   neatly   in   its   culture,   an   exploration   of   degree   and   a celebration   of   the   vivid   festival   of   life.   It   is   color   and   imagination   in   the   ambling   between   high   art and   low-budget   romp,   joy   and   sadness,   brutality   and   fun,   love   and   distance.   It   is   a   lyrical   book with formal style, mixing traditional music with broken furniture. However books entice readers to   take   a   chance   or,   midway   through,   fillip   you   to   keep   us   on   the   nightstand   and   press   on,   I   can only    humbly    ask    or    offer:    What    other    book    of    poetry    are    you    reading    that    has    Elephants, Henchmen,   cookies,   hypnotists,   buffi,   stuffed   animals,   curlicues,   lullabies,   love,   reflection   and chase that this one should not join?
Tuckford Bunny Press
© 2009-2019 William Frank | Tuckford Bunny Press |  Selden, NY  |  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication or website may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Fiasco Galante

The Fiasco Galante is a book of poetry that fits neatly in its culture, an exploration of degree and a celebration of the vivid festival of life. It is color and imagination in the ambling between high art and low-budget romp, joy and sadness, brutality and fun, love and distance. It is a lyrical book with formal style, mixing traditional music with broken furniture. However books entice readers to take a chance or, midway through, fillip you to keep us on the nightstand and press on, I can only humbly ask or offer: What other book of poetry are you reading that has Elephants, Henchmen, cookies, hypnotists, buffi, stuffed animals, curlicues, lullabies, love, reflection and chase that this one should not join? Sample poems follow…                                                          a Bunny The day you can’t be Bunny anymore Renzo comes at nine to saw your stilts, her brothers next to kick you out of doors and stab you in the belly to the hilt. Like a comet, our chroniclers record I sang when broke, I put the time on tilt, you were easy in my arms, I was adored and I had a little nose made out of felt. Curlicues Taking Notes    † Ringworm isn’t pretty and bad girls go to jail.    † Gyrovagues were drunkards and roved around Despair.    † Some want their whiskey straight; the tightrope act defer.    † It isn’t proper theorem if I have to punch you in the face.    † The short way round leads to a broken commonplace.    † The animals are lying, see The Fall From Grace.    † Never was a man so going he didn’t tangle up his thread    † or be the Boke of Crafte of Dyinge dancing or in bed    † the klutz has the touch of cold that ferries on the Dead.    † The whip is our instrument, the floret is our band.    † Everywhere in Nature is the flourish of free hand    † and every Great Disaster, love, ends with ampersand.
Buy Now Buy Now
$14.00, 89 pages