#foam
a spiralling decant
spills in the sea
vapours of foam,
salt and sunbalm
wrap our souls
in the ephemera
of skin and bones
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 8:59 AM UTC
Mad — not your maid.
Not wearing red,
Not a bride.
An individual — not your twilight.
It’s my dead ocean — ghost of turquoise.
Don’t scream — in sirens, sink.
It’s Aphrodite’s sea-foam, revived.
Now submerge — just drown.
You trident-touched tide.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 9:04 AM UTC
You feel like light.
You feel like foam.
You feel so bright.
You feel like home.
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 6:05 PM UTC
Three layers of metadata deeper…
servile gates ask,
"Pretty-print this minified file?"
option PRETTY-print
or Don't show again… learn more
ever these occur
pop up possible means beneath the image,
that was
my goal. The kids in holocaust garb
memeing me to not forget,
but those kids
look fatter
than the kids in Eli Wiesel's Night Scenes
from the Bible,
so I was seeking the source
blurr ie smear
QR code crossover, are we in the machine?
id est
AI suggests we are of one mind,
some time
think if we
sing the syllables, roll the r's
roll all r's
- an exercise in being otherwise minded
"
Diwanit bugale
May you blossom, children
Didostait bugale Come near, children
Ar serr-noz hag ar gouloù deiz Dusk and dawn
Roit kalon din-me Give me courage
Aon 'm eus rak hon dazont
The future frightens me"
From <https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4441176/curious-fawn-makes-me-think-kalonou/>
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 3:03 PM UTC
foam signatures
remained on the shoreline
telling of wave flow
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
At high tide, the sea ejects
foam and glass fishing floats.
We wait for the waters to recede,
tiptoe around anemones and *****
I spot a small green globe.
She says it belongs to a Japanese goddess,
her eyes plucked out by a vengeful lover
and cast into the deep.
I see only an old sake bottle
crafted into a sphere,
etched with sand and netting patterns.
Tomorrow, I will look for agates
while she searches for the goddess’s other eye.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:16 PM UTC
Everything happens at once. The mixing
of blue-green dropping white on cold brown rocks,
a maelstrom of water sounds affixing
themselves to fine hovering mist which talks
pouring and pounding to the surroundings,
flat river interrupted; sculpted liquid
fluctuations arising / collapsing
ever-changing life depicted in mid—
crest: trough, tribulation, swirl and foam,
scented moisture feels soft over the jagged
undercurrent. A fish jumps. Water carves stone.
We are released: through spray the river flows,
exiting the eddy and peacefully home.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 12:30 PM UTC
She stood at the edge of a deep rock
leashed to the side of the sea
with foam biting at her feet
and waves barking at her.
She breathes a salt stenched air
and watches its jaws open
only to see a sailor
rotting between its teeth.
She swallows air whole,
call it courage or stupidity
but she takes a step towards it.
Now the hound named
"Sea"
became full
once more.
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 7:47 PM UTC
An AI fear ifier, launched on Joe Rogan,
ALARM WOLVES LOOSE EATER ROBOTS ON FLOCK ALARM,
naw, out here, on the border, well,
watch fargo, joe, we have chippers, big chippers and
plenty of retards to run them. We use AI to foment joy juice.
Don't play been there done that with me.
Money, these guys believe, as takers have told them,
no givers have shown them grace
for grace,
you want it, get it, that's the secret,
slow and steady wins the race, to get old
you gotta live this long
that's a song,
you can humm along,
any good deed is tainted by money love lessons
learned under weight of student loans
guaranteed, student for ever or
if high school was your limit, we got sports, you can watch
and feel a weness in the strength of Sunday Gladiators,
but war is unthinkable here,
on this level of reality, mere words may **** a will,
but not an actual made way,
as in made man in the mafia movies, a way, once made
remains. Siempre phibeta or worse. Life won, that's how this was done.
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
In the light
of the moon,
I slowly make
my way to you.
In the night
so black,
your soft voice
calls me back.
You gently dance
upon the waves,
to my fingertips,
but I can only gaze:
beyond the horizon,
I hear and see home
that isn't of land, but
in your arms of sea foam.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things
*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")
wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?
this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.
the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!
No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.
Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.
Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,
Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.
------------------
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
On the day I first met my diploma
We did not know what to say but I swear
The moment I reached to steal my small prize
A faint salty breeze stood quiet in the air
Restless feet find the shore and pause for moments
The stubborn clamor behind me will rest
Despite crude plans tacked on imploding walls
Instinct takes command, my body turns west
Soothing cries from below hurl their last pleas
My legs march desperately through the waves
There is no escape for those who don't charge
Away from the pleasures they've known as slaves
What was before only spoken by loved ones
Sits in bold against the pale white paper
A voice in a bubble floats toward my ears
With a language unkown it screams not to waver
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
He doesn't know what his purpose is.
Does he even have one?
Is he a giver?
A taker?
What is it?
All he does now is wash dashes in a nasty restaurant with cheap, foamy soap that barely cleans the dishes.
Not that anyone would notice that.
He doesn't want to live this way forever,
But his bad luck is ceaseless.
There's no way that something good would happen to him.
At least not in this life.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
i hear your screams
and unsung songs
above the flying tide
and in the foam
frothing free
you'll feel my earthly touch
dont push away
from the shore
with hands of grassy sand
reach out to me
with shades of blue
and striping dissonance
and when they mix
to form anew
place alone in time
you'll wonder where
the colors went and
how we learned to fly
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
I woke up wondering,
How are you?
Have you eaten your morning meal?
Have you wonder too how am I?
Every morning I felt empty,
Wondering how am I suppose to fix this catastrophe.
You left me hanging,
Again and again.
The somersault feeling fades away,
This would drive me insane.
You left me with no words to say,
And I know this day would came.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
She has a heart of cedar color
And dreams in shades of peony and lotus stems.
She leaves the smell of cyclamen and ripe apricots
Behind her,
Those who are crying in the shadows of Magnolias
Are finding a shelter within her.
Sometimes I imagine that I'm the sea foam
That is touching her ankles
And the air that envelops her lips,
Absorbing her every move,
That is reflected in the mosaic of her pupils.
Her thoughts are sleeping in the depths of my veins,
In every pore that absorbs her voice
I can hear her breathing.
I remain frozen in her existence
And in the contours of her shadow,
All of what I have seek so far
I have found in every thing on which she brushed.
After all,
I'm just a pale reflection of the stars
In her night sky,
The dying firefly in her garden
Of white poppies and wild rose hips.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
I try to hard to perfect it... someone has to notice my effort.
I drown my sorrows in a book, cramming information into my "empty" mind according society.
I am on a high from caffeine , I have to be superwoman.. save the day, save the world and stuff...
I give my all , fight to the last second but my best is not good enough anymore. In my own highway of dreams I carry coffins of rejects.....
I am tired of writing my "wrongs" that society identified..
I am tired of being perfect and tired of being tired...
I was not good enough for my mother, who chose to find acceptance in a bottle...I had a boy for a father and a judge as society..
As time stands still I engrave all the "rejects" in my gravestone ....
Here lived a soul not goo enough for society..
I stand bu the coast and shut my eyes .. the breeze hits against my face and for a moment I feel free....
I take these white pills and for a moment I am free,,, acceptable..
I swim in these intoxicating liquid and for a second I am free... acceptable to society,, Good enough....
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC