HUNDREDY WAVES

a hundred pretty waves

small busy surf bursting like opened beer cans

or dropped six packs

foaming and frothing over the greasy floor by the corner shop till

flowing and flooding lager bubbles popping

a hundred pretty waves

flickering blue red orange campfire flame

the constant walk of change

feeding the needy human eye

in the young booze forest of drugs and dogs and distant torch monsters

crunching dry sticks in the tense listening quiet

where girls all climb and sit stuck in dead wood trees

a hundred pretty waves

like obscure obsolete drunk dead folkies

fingers pluck and strum of tramp boats and european gambling

arrive like crack demographics

at the smashed rock shore

a hundred pretty waves

sea swollen bodies that bob like port buoys

and cable turds of long murder mumbled slowly out

sudden brake smears and thick dark melted pelts

caught and twisted in tight fists in warm fishing cave nets

or

shot

clear

and

obviously

overdue;

like missiles like corks like free blown brass pistons broken

shot on old engines of the industrial steam age

a hundred pretty waves

waves wash up naked whales out of salt and song

watered by charities on short ladders

stomping

leather

boots

in the

hundredy waves -