The ship? Docked. Docked in a funnel of Dr Pepper waves
Sloshing over metal casings and spanking the halyards
Like dumb nuns, blood-besotted breast-scarves blousing in wakes.
Readers! Manufacture me a new Love, the old one's gone, just
An imaginary heat-source. Stalking 'round the rigging,
I climb the jib boom in a jiffy in oversized jubbah.
Hubba, hubba! There's my Twinkle, I see! These binoculars
Are peachy, old specs I used to supervise the dank
Recesses of the cavernous barn to firm strokes of glory.
Pasted pic on the lens? God! Peglegging the travelled periphery,
With ineffectual sea-spray I salute as my south four
Has not saluted in a decade. Amour, scant vestiary,
I throb in desperation through a sick mariner's eyeglasses
Spoking the panorama of bluey air, my halluces
Visible to visiting barracuda who abjure appetites.
Quiet barquentine, ripped mizzenmast amidst clashing cables,
I’ll sail with you to my grave (the barnyard wouldn't have me)
Infecting the wind without remorse (my mic a symbol),
Eloping with Mabel (is there a Mabel for me?), ethereal
And (I hope) not gonorrheal. Haul from the yawl,
Yardarming yardapes! I sink, a perverse farm lubber flububbing
To the bottom of the sea, (un-) Amen.
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