Stailing the open seize.
Stay lifted on life.
“The right one never comes off.”
Seeing it, embracing it.
Skin sailing on wind.
Waves become whores wishing to drown
with you by the boundless sea.
Hide your gin, hydrogen.
Flesh gulls begin to peck at your cheek,
neck gristle shines.
Rotunda knuckles crash to the misted sheets.
Wood, resisting flesh.
Chalk, filaments and fibres melt in the heat.
Jaws cracking calcium peanuts.
Banged big peanuts.
Chomp the big heels of life.
Those stilettos will prevent your tongue.
It wishes to sail.
Expose your inner genius.
Few have the ability to do it.
To fully understand how to wield it.
The bone stail.
Hold it firmly.
Place your tongue on the table.
Drop the blunt.
Repeat into the tool as part of the whole.
Remove guts after the seizure has stopped.
Fluids are always.
Particles – to float, indeed.
Solid just stands.
Over the mess of chum.
It must be in the chum.
The chum must want sum.
But stand, and count.
Then let us dance.
Icarus is here tonight.
One night only.
It is a hot show.
Cannibals and witches,
stand up Stantastic’s,
genital mollusks, Zeiss flies.
Look at the guts.
Make yourself happier, feel the prick.
The leather whip tail of a radish,
bound and sutured to the sights you see.
Up and ebbed, flown over a nest.
Shame they always think of cuckoo nests.
In that highway, that trove of concrete.
The books must be dry when we quote them.
That is what they want, so give in.
Painted the walls with olives,
Heavy as fuck.
Scratch my back on that point there.
On this boat.
In the open seize.
Just you and me.
Where do you want to install your stail?
Quick, they are coming.
“Can we sail?”
I was hoping you would never ask.
I just don’t know.
We can try.
Poetry walked the moon first.