BOATHOUSE BAIT


It’s where I cursed the status’
“Quo Vadis?”
Where I blunted bolded bliss;
tiles in thoughtful fledge,
I plead this pledge in playful
edge.

And God knows that I’ve won!

…now string-strolls, stuffed-up dolls,
blunted in ex-axe-exaggerating
strikes. I kiss the spikes which spell
the hemorrhage of willing wounds.

Is this the rest, the rust, the restlessness
of bric-a-brac brick-built stones in
companies’ compiling composition;
a hammer sledge of sulfur sounds?

It’s where I swore on wounds’
revolters and bashful built boulders.
Where I withheld hillside holsters:
automatic art coming of age;
to channel rage in rounding stadia.

And God knows that I’ve won!

…now there’s a boat: this ship is mine;
decayed, decoyed, demonished
joy; diminished mine. I’m bate, I’m
boy, I’m boulder-like:
border in gain.
Let us sail out, a final more;
bough polished in polarized rays
of sun.

Wish ’t was mere for sunstroke fun,
but… for as long that we won’t burn
we are bound to rhythmical waves;
heated up like sole-subsiding craves

for gold and fish.

Let us sail out, a final more;
bough polished in appropriate solarized
days undone.

For gold and fish!

On the tearing timber throws a
tear; a bloodshed which I do not even
see, though fear. Your antiquity is
anguished dear, delivers stings.

In lumber left and in your rusted
thrust; you lack of polish and
published funds unknown.

Yet I pray Heaven for you to unfold!

Wait ‘till we set sail and…
the chance of wrecking is a ball,
‘though no clear danger in our present anger.

Your bolts are my believe…
Your steel my stolen moment…
Your guts my gasp in groaning…

Grasping just.

Now, what will they accomplish if we
return with vast amounts of bait?

Call us scrambling rascals?

God knows that I have won!

 


M.J.C.A. 22-07-2005