doused in a chiffon mist that lies in wait
for the unwary winged hopper or crawling louse,
offer the way to our saline convention where
I wave at the sea
and count a full seven
before it greets me, reciprocally,
with zealous rips and a curling lip I haven’t seen before
on this blandest of the eastern boards
and it roars with laughter as it swallows my children
but they scream right back:
come on
wetter, faster
and I Cnut, Cnut turn away
each foaming beer roller as they open the way
for my dancing stones to bounce straight back
and join the litter of forfeit limbs and hollowed homes
akin to sun baked chimera skulls of mythical birds,
as mermaids words curse their ever lost purses
through an outfall cough where their bronchial diamonds wink
before they shatter amidst the footpads that follow
the Red Bull and rag dolls the ink branded brazen and bacon sizzlers,
in the thrall of the sky’s apex predator, with their vermillion blush
of a madmans rush to the final dance
as their dogs birth their orphan logs to remind me
just where we remain
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