Whether driven by sail or the labour of oars,
she was crime who destroyed it, this broad barge broken
in the bile of pirated pause thunder spilled forth,
taking down a diet of words thrown over when
she emerged, this bitch of a storm Fate paid perverse
silver coward moonlight pilfered; it’s the cost men
no braver had to ransom in another sea,
in another era, when (t)error ate debris.
Eating of infamy, their albatross-wide sores
opened to take in salt, since the sea’s mouth filled them
who went down it, the source of maternal flavour
drying their tears as it nurtured deep from within,
caverns of stomachs pitted out, fears drawn nearer
to the surface, perverting all their names taken
by an amanuensis hand dark charity
forsook, taking a census of suffering’s fleet.
This is how the let-down feels, increasingly worse
each time salt-dried truth lines the frayed noose it tightens,
scratching the throat, blowing out dust to reinforce
their dread chorus of, “I’m Not Interested, Man”
played loud when, “I’m Into Women” needs an encore
and the crowd goes rabid, ready to eat again
this little heart harpooned by the wailing party
failing to recognize new opportunity.
Weather driven by failure, this labour of ours
draws affection, of course; tropical depression
ignores all warnings and pours out onto far more
alluring flesh, intemperate propositions
unfruitful and unreturned, since spurned taste prefers
to let go to waste its lush craving, tiptoeing
around us throughout our lives, laying a trap we
never miss, drawn into it like fruit flies blindly.
In hindsight, we could only ignore its great force,
this white hope blighting us with its cure heaven sent
as an antidote to this curse, since teenagers,
we have had to endure; wanting bad to become
wanted by the others, those guys who have never
attempted to understand what makes a poem,
or had the foresight to inform themselves of needs
we all have for other halves, not just the lonely.