The night paints inhaling smoke and semen.
The frail face pulses like a parachute,
corridors of shakes melting from the boot
of that surf north breathes bloody in simoon.
On the tide when the galleon is moved
by the fatal dolor of mariners,
a cry becomes whole night of war in us;
I’m wrecked on what’s no grunted green behoved
or truly sufferable. The white will
and jealousy of death beside the sea
crushes when not all dark and grievable
like the monster who specks the distance, leers,
collapses, shouts “You can die even me,”
roaring up, throttles whom he fed for years.
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