Musings by The Poet Loriet
Treading Water
Every time I put my arm down,
my sweater sleeve snags
a fried shrimp.
I don't look very graceful
with shrimp grabbing my arms,
weighing me down.
That's the way today's going.
I don't even have strength
to fight a shrimp.
I try to eat them,
to conquer them,
but they thread themselves
like rubber through
my teeth, fighting their way
through the alimentary canal.
My hair winds around my knife
like seaweed and won't let go.
Barnacles stick to my ass
as my mood sinks to lowest depths
and my ghosts take over,
apparating in and out of portholes,
wailing and gnashing their soggy
bony teeth, singing dead sailor songs,
but I don't want to drown today.
Somebody please show me the sundeck~
before it's too late.
Lori Beal
my sweater sleeve snags
a fried shrimp.
I don't look very graceful
with shrimp grabbing my arms,
weighing me down.
That's the way today's going.
I don't even have strength
to fight a shrimp.
I try to eat them,
to conquer them,
but they thread themselves
like rubber through
my teeth, fighting their way
through the alimentary canal.
My hair winds around my knife
like seaweed and won't let go.
Barnacles stick to my ass
as my mood sinks to lowest depths
and my ghosts take over,
apparating in and out of portholes,
wailing and gnashing their soggy
bony teeth, singing dead sailor songs,
but I don't want to drown today.
Somebody please show me the sundeck~
before it's too late.
Lori Beal
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Treading Water
Treading Water
