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#provisions
I am a farmer at sea 60 sheep, 100 pigs, geese and ducks on departure These are frugal rations with the stew, army bread and beans No need to slaughter The beasts just die so there is always meat for the cook and the officers high above my smelly stable where I haul in the buckets from the sea and scrub the **** through the scuppers In the bunks, it is worse There is the world of the below deck of sweat, exhaust gases, and the rasping sick where you sink asleep in a pit full of poo and *** gasp for air and throw up brown tar
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Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 4:37 AM UTC
Farmer at sea
in so many ways, besides the stocking stuffers, of my fav this 'n that, she mas~tt~ers me in the other ways me: up,all,night, by tablet light, three, no four poems deposed as witnesses to the thee~se of my life… she: sleeps, surely to dream, making minor whelps, minor moans while reliving her life in to~self~whispered tones just past the four o"clock am, silent chiming, she stirs, and grabs my nearest , the writing hand, then take my hand, and forcibly musses mine prideful full-hoary headed mess of follical appurtenances, then leans in, and forehead to heated forehead whisper additional sweet nothings indecipherable, (that is, what I am to believe) while I, stroke my fav body part, her serpentine roller coaster from hip down to waist and slowly slowly inching higher higher up to the softness of her breast, thinking silently of what the greatest called his best poem ever^ and then retracing my glide path in reverse, down then up, up then, down, and I deguilted for thinking her awakening all my tablet's fault, (not mine) despite my silencing of the clickety clacking, then she: re musses, re tussles, my messy messes then she: unceremoniously dumps me, having used me for meat~tenderizing (!) then: turns over, and back to glorious sleep, abandons the juste nous deux^ she, the me, without uttering a redounding sound secure in her~innate~all knowing, that she leaves her man, fully & well provisioned for to write her some m o r e onlylovepoetry p.s. **** **** so hard to get any work done around here, when she's around, wink  wink weep
0
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
she provisions me
in so many ways, besides the stocking stuffers, of my fav this 'n that, she mas~tt~ers me in the other ways me: up,all,night, by tablet light, three, no four poems deposed as witnesses to the thee~se of my life… she: sleeps, surely to dream, making minor whelps, minor moans while reliving her life in to~self~whispered tones just past the four o"clock am, silent chiming, she stirs, and grabs my nearest , the writing hand, then take my hand, and forcibly musses mine prideful full-hoary headed mess of follical appurtenances, then leans in, and forehead to heated forehead whisper additional sweet nothings indecipherable, (that is, what I am to believe) while I, stroke my fav body part, her serpentine roller coaster from hip down to waist and slowly slowly inching higher higher up to the softness of her breast, thinking silently of what the greatest called his best poem ever^ and then retracing my glide path in reverse, down then up, up then, down, and I deguilted for thinking her awakening all my tablet's fault, (not mine) despite my silencing of the clickety clacking, then she: re musses, re tussles, my messy messes then she: unceremoniously dumps me, having used me for meat~tenderizing (!) then: turns over, and back to glorious sleep, abandons the juste nous deux^ she, the me, without uttering a redounding sound secure in her~innate~all knowing, that she leaves her man, fully & well provisioned for to write her some m o r e onlylovepoetry p.s. **** **** so hard to get any work done around here, when she's around, wink  wink weep
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