Poetry: Ragged with Rage

The tidal waves that

flow under your bra

must be guarded

by the moon,

since they only come

out at night.

They cause my blood

to move, to come crashing

into Western shores of the brain.

Hurricane hearts blow

through my

ventricles.

The red seas

are not dead; they are

the only ones

keeping us alive,

hidden below the surface

of a lie.

The purpose is a secret,

standing proud like Atlantis.

Where You and I spell Us

and we are buried together,

making out behind Davy Jones' locker.

Our souls are

locked beneath passionate

eX-debacles and the rationing

of Mary Jane. We hold bowls

of water, waiting for the clouds

to rain, praying it can wash away

the pain of our pasts.

i make sails

out of the underwear

you leave in my room.

i motor boat

across the chesty wake

looking for room to

dock my lips and

my hands.

We are fresh like the sands and

your smile bridges

sea green eyes

while I wait to get

ship wreaked across

the sandbars of your thighs.

We are next

or at least you could be

for me. So long as you

can't swim free, I will be

swimming with the fishes.

not looking for the bitches,

I'm looking for my girl.

Or the clam that hides your pearl

Cause You are the riches to me

and I just want to help you

believe

that there are no such things

as your dead seas.

(From the collection Delirium, Delirium.)