There is a wooden window, circular
above a roses-in-ink embroidered couch
that complements and contrasts the curtain
of roses-in-mud that eloquently hugs
the wooden sides of the wooden window.
On this couch I sit in my suit and out I see
through the circular wooden window
waves with stretch marks and salty burps
dancing (for me?) with brave crashing crescendos
and butter melting bass.
This ocean could teach humanity
absolutely everything about sex
its voluptuous waves caressing
the horny seaweed and fucking
it for miles until it's washed (limp) ashore.
The couch back is hard and unused
speaking of the depravity of our angry age
whose asses wear bare the leather and studs
on the barstools in the club below my library
with its wooden window, circular.
I've yet to see a sunset or sunrise
in a place where I can see no land
but looking at the quiet reflections of rage on
the roiling ocean, on which I'm afloat,
I pray I do- I want to see it all aflame.