And then come ashore and learn our ways

Billows of hefty white swig in the sky
Sick and licentious
Scab inches
In
And to your heart.
Will nod you to
Non-existence.
Will play with your skull
In a sea garden
Watch the sea-miffs
Your presence
Never lift.
The little muffins you thought you could have
For free, how naff, rather spittle in your eye.
How one craves another's finish:
The woman she had seventy men.
Children present, unfed.
Casements-thonged-promises floated in seas of rising corn
The myopic bird fell
A storm
The storm of an age.
Wash then,
And then come ashore and learn our ways.

Anatol Cordua © 2017