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// I - V 
// Story: Derpy Hooves Wake 
// by Monsieur Bleu 
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I – V 

I

playing inside the music box.  Leaping to and fro from the chiming rhythms of baroque carnivals and elegant masks; lord pithy didn’t make it past the shores of jabberwaks as she tried desperately make amends to the fireflies that had sought out to make redundant the flapping of the wingedones—happily sailing past the trees and buffaloes catching her wings of the hairy threads of space and light not wanting to let go.  

Places aboard!  Best now to catch winds upward pips ranking not sees and seas and seeds ramming headfirst into the shortened bay lest all the gypsies and floaters in the words make hear towards the beachhead—then off! Splish! Splash! Waves make playbooks for treats and whatnot.  

Elephants and asses romping a delicate waltz.  Root! Root! Root!  I picked the rightleft side all of the time with more being right than the other or not at least being as wrong.  Thimbles now in black and white as morning upon the greys; oldetime religion photos show derby hats and diamond cranes.  

Avoiding the case of butterflies and open woods and creeks that run white with foam, little fairies make landfall in the trees.  So passing through sunlight on the way to the out of side and not trying to look back and see a space similar to itself so as to be open to the passing of dreams and 

II

advancing, solo, alone oft in this world.  Sprinkles of a fiddle; lest all approval; as much a hell—keep pace—wit and folly, all hooligans making bread in a cold oven.  Grecian wilde cards playing an odd game of lust and treason frothing at the cœur.  A post nation rebellion against the sandy stones that make up the mountain; granite wanting but unable to find the marshlands that yielded the stony birds to flutter away the souls of the righteous whores.

A pacified mare only sitting for land and bombshell virtues—aghast, awhirl, adoptee dreams hovering precariously close to the rocky ground. 

Little grains of sand on the beach, flecks of snow as the candle light passes by—a single mare walking in a long, cold wood.  Tension. Tension. Tension, vexed—I speak to the winds and they neglect the trotting hoofs.  She let the little fears go asquint, a masque.  Rattled by the sully there, barns awaiting and molls aglow. Darks then worsen to the heart an encrypted rhyme bouncing against space. 

Holding a grudge against the now passing winds of Derpy, lest the faint beating of the sagegrass give way to the ripening of hooves.  Who how then bees open a-fault spanning the gorge of the Everfree, preserve the hopes therein. Better the damned 

III

swooped up into the arms of awaiting ideas.  Flow forth the breath of drakes and smog a pyre of willing nations.  She has now a piece of the joust, lest the threads of knowing make aware their station.  No Ni Non. Ney.  Leigh there—keep up appearances for those whose make themselves in the realm of fairies be more content than us among the living damned.  

Those there—the partisans of earth and mud lay bare before the arch of history—pithy all.  Clasp the motion to the stagnant and watch them whorl about in a combat of the cosmos.  

Derpy opted to enjoy the realm; wise had worded Lulu and CPE.   Princess Imperium leaked the word to the savages—let them deal with their virtues aloft from the plane that this mare has left.  To say that they were indebted by sinn would be too frugal, even if the jesters would be caught dead in the white wine.  

Purgatorio held aloft by the webs of sovereigns chaffing towards a remarkable dancepole.  Fear and crafts—relieve—ripoff the masque du mort.  Hand him then into the graces of this body politic! You are grounded by ration to keep up appearances, dearest sœur—still I look upward past your shadow glare to anticipate your reaction to this joust.  I too, l’universe look to see you  

IV

lodging there making beds with past grievances that have always been rejoicing at the sounds of quarrel and strife.  Make me abode with this runts—for I shall enjoy them: platonic now—lest ye go first? Neigh lessons and tropes—you Louis II—and to this thee shall enjoy: placidly settling there smoking and courtiers cavorting in this rumpish parliament for the spheres of lucid absolution.  

Oh you queen spinstress catching little fruits in your threads and making a comedy-of-cards.  Indeed—caste you advance for these little twirling wisps engirthed: smarts making a comedy of these enraptured.  Oh well—then Ovid divine: meek here room for der alte Fritz!

Oh lou-est humor—now for forty wills and palatine bulls—magna carte—eeps ye forget; those who yield chaos always clever—foxes all; dashing away with lesser virtues tied up tween their quiver and bullock—alt thine grievances unredressed by the consummate partisans that are unwavering in their devotion to their vanities—I call for a bonfire!

Ditzy lisped about lazily on her fizzy cloud—sparking and dreaming—all in good humor. Only hoping that the dusts that fly about don’t give speech to the past evoked druids.  Still in the mists, waiting there

V

openly inclined to vouch for the zephyrs that go into for not wishing to come out.  Hark then for dearest celestial palatine equine—for now tis only fair to rebuff thee! In deed and word.  Let you tease these dangling crystals of sorry sorts of tweaks. These cosmos for that you morn are not requested nor relinquished—much less considering that the stability of the ethereal and the demos of the small. No! 

It is not the wilted flowers that make their traverse across seas of bleu-et-vert, but the gentle humming of mocking birds that chisel away at delirious perceptions.  Hung upon exiles! Chaos enjoys little in the protection of realms and heliosheres—of these wearies cracking!

Demands made upon the hills of foresight leaping into the open arms of greater smog: come unto the senses that make aware of the poor and plight.  They enjoy no tokens of calm in an ocean of merciless infatuations. I can only put forth this image: a mare with an empty teat trying to nurse a sick foal, alone, raged in the cold. 

A diddle looked down aloft—ahelm—ahigh—tis not sheik nor gay.  O’er the world and its black trees—against a misty backdrop, hillside forests and meadows, walking alone