I can’t seem to help it –
Waking up with sand, the scent
Of common sense eluding
Even my most recent dreams.
Faxed, it seems, between shores
Of sure, of certainty and carbon
Copies. Direct reflections painted
On, tattooed in vegetable flesh.
“My hat, it has three corners”.
But also a space for severed heads,
A sword, a feather, if you are
That way inclined, dear seaman.
Take the hint from Pitt Rivers, the
Shrunken face of Anthro-apologists –
Your issue catches in my throat.
The Caspian is swelling.
(William Bligh! William Bligh!
What inks brought home from mutiny!)
Skipping around my seed –
The bounty of a southern county.
Enough of this nautical menagerie,
Boy! You never slept in hammocks
And your fists are not like the
Proverbial… ah, you can’t bring
Yourself to mention it. Your pallid
Vegetarianism draws you back