story of a drunken boat

boat is shaking in the sea. cloud is smoking out of a kettle. coffee and ambitions shall be this evening’s potion. poetry slips between the guitar strings. red is the fog, yet this isn’t twilight. shore awaits still, but the boat is still shaking in the sea

like illusions
of a woman in nightmare
in poetry, everything is nightmare
yet the boat is still shaking
in the sea, in the bay

dada painting, then your casting prayers and being drunk absorb the morning world. anything wrong with the story of the wanderer? if not the waving wind, this must be telephone ring. boat is getting restless, tied up by cables. no seagulls on its sailpost. the sea is being away. cloud is still boiling in the kettle. gas stove is still burning

sea is burning. wave is shaking the boat, dream is left at the beach. the boat doesn’t feel llike going ashore. the sea of poetry is still hungry. dinner must wait. alas, sky is so quiet, where did you hang this morning hat? still a long way to go. then silence: it’s time to hold illusions

like birthday cake, the boat is still shaking. also the candle light. Noah isn’t in that boat. only animals, and a poet. and a weary sail. a face is stuck at the stern and stars are falling a few. somebody is waiting. poet is still asleep. dream is dancing, poetry is sailing

dada painting, and the washing rain. illusions adrift. eyebags flood. one is missing hugs. boat is still drunk, floating in the sea of poetry. one is crying, perhaps a late fever

at the beach, a crab
is telling the turtle eggs
the story of the shaking boat, then drowning
while it’s drunk, the sea
swallows it

Noah isn’t
in that