The Dock

Kahlua-sprinkled carcasses are splattered on the sea floor.

Their horny mantras go unheard and spiral like western noir.

My teeth bleached and rotting bite at frustration-fed delights.

And ransack the caretaker's cottage, just to rat on the burly boss.

Sweet, surly, sultry, farm! Blanketing their cots with domination.

Shopkeeper's "fuck" alarm! Goes off at the smell of abomination.

They sail painting the phallus sky a dizzy shade of blue on the S.S. Telephone Wire

They dock and board more octopi fluttering about like an open-book pyre.

Therapeutic nails claw out the chest,

Shocking knives collect modest amounts of tension.

Carpal tunnel kaleidoscope reeks of volleying threats,

They look and find eight counts of empty lessons.

"It's fucking hot like a bride-to-be's dance floor

These seas of muscle flex and protrude some more

On the shores...we'd better disembark" they implore.

They scratch at jaws itching anxiety

With the sides of ports and the parades of palm trees

And I know, that we're not better off alone.

I say "absolve air".

They say "dissolve and dilute".

They're like the family of musicians I never had.

So let's see what's at the dock.