Unanalysed fresh speed poetry 10/3/12

As the Samsara tricks,
Augusts and lost winters

fall and slip,

Indebted indeed the masculine steed

who's march does much to suffer face
but to suffocate, be but saving grace-

in order to escalate and capitualte the unasphyxiation;
one must under, succumb to the 

plunge,

to the tatter and thrash, the

plunketting junction of 

flutter, the
wrestled-wash of the rollicking rash,

the wrath of washing-spears tip sunk through the butter

On the pancake of grace,
We wipe the crumbs surrounding the face,
Played by the sunlit place,
We sit in vinyl, amidst of our chase.

As the decembers and weather,
sweeps the crop on its way
As we as wheat, we stand and we sway,

So the melted hour-glass drips,
And so the Samsara ticks,