Lapping up liquidity—
with lipped at, clipped at, air,
“I’d mildly like to scoff at—
my last stretch of ruinous care.”
The wretched, moonless croon-time,
of sun stared, right-root motion.
The beached seed heat in cruelty—
sans sand, y si, sans ocean.
A way my body yawns now,
the whistled-at traps & pulls,
my thought-routine serene now,
those qualms as dot sized gulls.
A big stuck rake of rip-tipped ropes,
my missed-for strength all goes—
unearthing solicitous swinging winds
‘neath fish-eyed caribbean crows.
So sea-born again, in-front from first,
off and peeled for hungry kings;
dry of drought—
the blue blown burst—
WHERE MY BRASS RAG SINGS!