F Poem

I'm clung to the chop of life.

A slippery boat in the greasy waves

who are rough-capped with sea,

so the whales don't fish

and the sharks don't bite

or mind you floating through them

to a sandy bottom.

No sand but oysters lined with cuts

and spikes on your feet

pants filled with water

itching pain from the salt

licks every knick on your body.

The rash that won't go away.

I'm clung to the chop of life

Have you heard?

Your glasses crushed so much

and the water hurts so much

to see you fall down it's not sand but oysters for a bed.

E Poem

Trash myself to the last place on earth

Bigger than I'll ever think a pyramid.

He brush the groove I travel in.

Borderline summer weekend rush to the sea,

bedding in tow and lobster craw loshed up in a crag,

washed up on the beach,

lost in a winter batch whiskey that makes me droop.