
Dead and bloated,
the bitch magnet
lolled in the surfline
–tacit seal of approval
given
by napping township.

Dead and bloated,
the bitch magnet
lolled in the surfline
–tacit seal of approval
given
by napping township.

Diss
mantled him
–cloaked him
in
sult
-an
abstract
shun—
designed
in
fer.

Dawn is
a jokester
always cracking up–
noon—who’s so high
and doesn’t get the joke
‘til after—
night falls, clumsy in the dark
rooms–the loo
–it’s a problem–
in witch hours?
the wee.

Liz was a brain
–and approachable
so approachable–
so hands-in everything
(that’s what I heard)
but Ma’am
was the opposite
–alien in her rigid
manner
for all she was brainy, too–
she dictated!
directing
via
internal GPS
–recalculating
forever recalculating–
routes she shoulda took the first time,
making her bluesprint
easy to discredit
a scandal for which alien Ma’am cried
alligator tears
yep, the real deal
–an arrangement of which only Ma’am alien emoted–
Liz all busy gettin’ busy
. . .
rollin’ eyes
droppin’ jeeZ,
and diggin’ in.
Her sheer carnality
irresistible.

I
can
and
did
drop my guard
and frankly,
the lack of mettle
looked the less
but my arms were
already broken
and I could not
reinvest
added visor
to abandoned
hell-met
to gird remaining
skin
(from the sun,
and all types of incidental whether) i
boiled on the inside…

tomorrow
procrastinates
–dithers itself
contextually,
and
today
is too long–
48 hours
phonetically,
yesterday
is
best ter’day
–agreeable
definitively.

If you want
to catch starfish,
it happens with purpose
–dolphin free, it’s
loosely netted
purpose
that’s part of the catch
bringing echinoderms
home–
sometimes
those spiny spangles
wash ashore, though
–buffeted by tide
and crowded out of
pools
a bothersome detail
since
crabs rarely
latch on,
the number 1 reason
pools always
merit
inspection
–when trawling
for 5 points.