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howard brace Jan 2013
Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297
howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
Alys Jun 2010
Oh Sally Lightfoot
With your limpet-crusted shell -
What a well dressed crab.

Crayfish, how is it
That your skeleton is on
The outside of you?

The female lobster
Lays a hundred thousand eggs:
Thermidor for all.

Furry crustaceans
Found in the South Pacific -
Can ***** be cuddly?

Can you fall in love
When your heart is in your head?
Wish mine was too, shrimp.
Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future's endless stair;
Chop us, change us, **** us, **** us.
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.

Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow,
In the present what are they
while there's always jam-tomorrow,
While we tread the onward way?
Never knowing where we're going,
We can never go astray.

To whatever variation
Our posterity may turn
Hairy, squashy, or crustacean,
Bulbous-eyed or square of stern,
Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless,
Towards that unknown god we yearn.

Ask not if it's god or devil,
Brethren, lest your words imply
Static norms of good and evil
(As in Plato) throned on high;
Such scholastic, inelastic,
Abstract yardsticks we deny.

Far too long have sages vainly
Glossed great Nature's simple text;
He who runs can read it plainly,
'Goodness = what comes next.'
By evolving, Life is solving
All the questions we perplexed.

Oh then! Value means survival-
Value. If our progeny
Spreads and spawns and licks each rival,
That will prove its deity
(Far from pleasant, by our present,
Standards, though it may well be).
Damian Murphy Jan 2016
When all goes to hell
I retreat into my shell;
Human Crustacean?
K Balachandran Mar 2012
The green crab's countenance,
has an allure so rare,
but those pincers up close,
are *a picture of uncivilized eclat.
Laniatus Feb 2013
Feet swill the inky ocean
black night and starlight
dragonfly mate

above the crustacean
a simplicity of darkness
the breathing tide rotates

footprints washed again and again
around my hands the world

I feel I want for nothing.
Nicholas Pan Jan 2020
With ideas in her head,
she acquires ingredients from creation.
She picks up some bread,
some meats and some crustacean.

With purchases in her hands,
she assembles them into her curation.
Each ingredient has a plan,
that's all part of her preparation.

She cook in her pots and pans,
dishes of her imagination.
Juggling flavours and textures,
from experience and experimentation.

She host her friends regularly,
not any one group particularly.
With smiles, laughter and her kitchen art,
everyone sense the generosity from her heart.

She is the artist,
the scientist,
the chef,
the friend
and my wife.
Nonah Nov 2016
I sunk to the bottom of the ocean once. Though it wasn't really all that grand. Everything that I saw was either shrouded in darkness, or a silty haze. The water was cold and the currents were violent. They ****** me too and fro.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like it there at the bottom of the ocean, it's calm and it's dark and it soothes the fires of a soul like mine. The passage there however is the part that hurts so much, for before you may sink into the silky silt of the ocean floor and become neighbors with the *****, you must descend through the turbulence and the dangerous anglerous fish that inhabit the places betwixt.

I suppose the hardest part about the journey is saying goodbye to the sunshine that you grew to love, after having spent time, from the ocean floor.

Someone drags you up and you see the sun and you start to laugh more, and you start to love more and everything starts to feel warm and beautiful again. You look at that someone that brought you up and wrought you into shape and  you see such beauty. They shine like the sun, no, they are even better.

But sometimes,

They abandon us.

That is not to say we are doomed to sink back down, they do not hold us here, as we do not hold them. We are free to remain on the surface with the sunlight.

Most of us choose to jump back in, though.

Let the ocean swallow us whole once again.

Some swim back to the surface, determined to, perhaps, be more than a friendly newspaper conversation with a crustacean.

However, many just live there, unwilling, unable, to go anywhere else.

I sunk, to the bottom of the ocean once. Or twice, and a few times after that. Always finding a reason to swim back, sometimes I am dragged back. No matter which way though and honestly, how matters not, I always end up back on that beach.

Waiting, watching the ocean. Wondering, pondering the possibilities and if I should wade back out and sink down once again.

The ocean surely is a frightful thing.
JP Mantler Dec 2013
My body once an ocean,
Water seeped through my pores,
Now a dry crustacean
Discontent shall be no more

My body a euphoric journey
In a wavely atomic state
In faithful hopes of good fate
No more cynicism, no more hate

No more No more,
I shall do without,
Without animus, without fear
And nor any further shedding of tear

My body a talkative spirit
Good spirit talk some more
Engage the well-winded conversation
But not end in confused frustration

My body animates love from
The surface of my Eyes
I do not wish for anymore Cries
Unneeded to despise

My body with yours
Perfection that pours
Connection that will ever last
Both in present and in past

You and me,
We equate you see,
Like two pods in a pea,
Or is it the other way around?

For beloved Eternity,
Our Universe smiles at each other,
In sane glee
Insane and happy  

Our devotion cystic
The warmth holistic
We protect from Sadistic
Do you see? We click

My body once an ocean
Water seeped through my pores,
Now a dry crustacean
Discontent shall be no more
Simon Soane Sep 2015
Some people say they don't like social networking
on mobile phones,
"it distances us from human connection"
they bleat and moan,
"takes us away from natural converging,
curtails face to face ties from emerging,
subdues us in a swamp of technology,
this engagement with messaging is surely a folly."
And as they depart they say,
“give me a person over a mobile msg anyday.”
Now don't get me wrong eye to eye communing is amazing
and it's not the last reserve of a luddite to prefer tactile phrasing
or to think sweet nothings into a there ear is best
but that doesn't mean there is nothing in mobile caress.
Because you can meet someone at a festival, and feel a sweet spark
that thunders through the roaming larks
and then when you part after a few days
think, "oh, that was awesome, I enjoyed their ways,
they made me laugh and gave me jumping smiles,
****, it's a pity between us there are miles and miles."
But when you arrive home and charged up a message pings
"you back now?" I see it and start to feel sing.
So we take our phones and chat all the next day,
getting to know each other in a happy appy way,
giggling at your words, beaming at the next
growing through lightning at each little text,
learning more in these screen chats;
you go to lots of BBQs and love dogs and cats,
you dye your hair and are calamity stricken
your top fajitas are finger lickin,
you know Mandarin and are ace at Catchphrase
and you have an inclination for New York days,  
you can analytically discuss scenes from C Street,
you can charm the customers at a store meet and greet,
you can decipher the nuance in The Bistro goss,
you can put up with **** from ****** at Argos.
You have a mate who picks up Mark Ronson's pooch,
you've saved a big crustacean when been on a mooch,
you can relate a song to Odysseus using sheep to save his men
and watch Mr G the musical over and over again,
you stay up/get up to watch the Super Bowl,
you type faster than a thought on a roll,
you've danced with Pete Barlow's ship mate from Corrie,
you can drive a car and a van, I recks you could handle a lorry!
You have loads of friends and often verge on more dislocation,
I want to be near you, whatever the location.
I want to pull you out of a hat
and see you stand on my welcome mat,
see, mobiles are good because it's good to feel that.
But if some quantum physicists are to be believed, after perusing their hefty tomes,
somewhere in infinite there is a place with no mobile phones,
and a boom of synchronicity has to be carried on by pen on paper
and there are days and days tween a tumbling heebie jeebie butterfly caper,
and then it's sent with a hope that it won't be lost in the post,
and be not read, like a bottled message uncorked by the coast.
Maybe a letter and no phones is better for starting a fizz
but right now mobiles make this what it is;
if not for them would I feel this close to you?
Or be writing this to you?
Right now I like feeling close to you,
and I like writing this to you,
to you Lou.
Hi!  The middle part pertains specifically to a person I know but you get the gist!
Peace! x
Jami Samson May 2014
Brood of the journey,
Offspring of adventure;
Cradled in a crib
Of boat rides and bus drives,
Rocked in time with teenage nursery rhymes,
A million miles per hundred hour,
Marking dashed lines
Across the Philippine map
From Region IV-A
To Region V,
For four summer daysprings
And five summer nightfalls.
My umbilical cord recoiled in loops,
Through the roller coaster road,
Under the waterfall expressways,
Bumper-to-bumper with the hills,
Baby on board;
Pulled in my diesel pushcart,
Back to the womb of my motherland
And into the water that once broke
To give me my own air.
But I haven't breathed better until
Now that I swim again in her salty seasac.
How I have long starved my feet
Of her creamy sand
Which the skin between my toes
Suckle like breastmilk.
How short it has taken
For her colors to change
From seagreen in the dawn,
To aquamarine by ripe daylight,
To turquoise in the afternoon,
And to teal blue by dusk,
Upon having me in her arms.
I was as happy as a clam
When a welcome party was thrown
By the fish residence
And I was reunited
With my crustacean playmates
And their echinoderm pals.
During my stay,
I had the whistles of the sea breeze
As my morning wake-up call,
And by night
The sky is my ceiling,
Decorated with star glitters
And one would fall everytime
To turn off my night light
While the waves would splash
A cool blanket on me.
I would go on treasure hunts
To find the lost seashells;
Raiding coast-to-coast of the boundary,
Declaring tug-of-war,
Jumping in with both feet
And holding my breath,
Fighting the careless Captain Current
And his crew of buccaneers
Attacking in foams and spumes,
And I was unwavering,
Unflagging,
Yanking the *****
To victory.
With Merleau-Ponty,
To be free is to be situated;
But with these marlins,
It is dancing on the ocean floor.
Take it from the jellyfishes
Who just go with the flow
And follow the tide
Whether if it meant
Being washed ashore
Or sinking in the deep,
As long as their tentacles
Are free.
One day I visited
The underwater kingdoms;
Parts of Atlantis
Dispersed into an archipelago.
The Coral Cave,
Land of the soft and stony;
There lives the family
Of jelly-prickled corals
Who are all slimes and tickles,
Among their relatives,
The rose reefs,
Who are red as petals
But rough as thorns.
The Boulder Territory,
A colossal chamber castle
Filled with all the bathroom stones
To scrub your feet with,
But which upon being rushed in
By the cavalry of billows,
One would bruise themself
On the cliff floors
For fear of the enemy,
The barracuda;
Patroling the dark areas
Of the vicinity,
Lying in wait
For its next victim.
In the neighboring island
Just beyond the shoreline,
Is the Seaweed Seabed;
The base plantation
Of the seagrapes,
Natively Philippine Caviar,
Which are saltwater explosives
In the mouth
That come in bunches
Of crunchy, jelly green beads.
Last but not the least,
The Pebble Desert;
A torrid terrain
Of dunes and dunes of pebbles
Pink, peach, and pearl,
Cool in the eyes
As pastel *****
But hot in the feet
As burning coals.
Sometimes we create
The most beautiful things
To be mirrors of ourselves
Modeled from our brokenness
To cast back
A better image of us
In one piece
And be looked at
As something worth loving
If not something perfect,
And God must have been
Truly in smithereens
As to put together
A whole world of a looking glass
Reflecting His divine entirety
For us, His fallible caretakers
To see Him as someone
Worthy of our love,
Aside from perfect.
And I know that
He knows me too well
To know that
What I really mean to say
Is 'I love you'
When I would rather
Simplicity speak for beauty
And let majesty be mystic,
Than bother forcing
Some not-quite words
To fit His creation.
Sadly,
Even the starfish,
The child of the ocean
And the sky,
A blending of two worlds,
Yet still goes out on a limb
To be a part of a third one,
Can't stay too long
Where it doesn't belong,
And we all have to
Go back at some point
To the place
We just couldn't call home
Because we're always looking
For somewhere else.
But I have come to find
That home is not really where,
But who you're with.
So I shall never have to worry
For the Earth is three-fourths water
And the body is fifty percent of it;
The ocean and I
Will always share
The same whole.
#52. May.23.14
TC Apr 2013
Scuzzy film on a scalding riptide,
Bare sinew woven like scaffolding,
Catcalling as warm-and-fuzzies
Mince by like so many exposed marble legs
Passing construction sites.
Crimped by a polaroid viewfinder,
I sit alone and click-click-click
With folded memories in my pocket.

Let me just set the record straight:
I’m still in love with our contrails,
But you can go **** yourself.
We were helter-skeltering kids
Rivulets of caustic devotion
Sweltering down our skeletons,
Fly away with me again, please
I’m seeing synonyms for you
In every ally-cat hymnal
This gutter throat can sputter out
Seeing scarecrows bound by wicker muscles
Shivering in a windfarm
Powered by all those doors you slammed
Snapping together like worn
Rubber bands warm summer hands --
Dance with me, you were
The most perfectly human
I've ever felt.

Is that Listerine rolling out of your mouth
In waves of empty bottles once meant for me?
Off of your shoulders like a cape,
A swindler, eyeing you
Like you’re trying to sell me cutlery.
Exchange glances that are
Trailmix crumbling between couch cushions,
Rubbing shoulders with waspy relief,
Tendrils of comfort had me gripped by the biceps
Spread eagle like a petrified starfish
Till I lashed out at you with bullwhip arms
Because my own back had been too hard to reach lately,  

Mirrored
Ad Infinitum.
Your tongue looks like a mirror,
Stick it out at me,
We always did look more than alright together
People stared on the subway,
Called us starry-eyed without a trace of irony.
Back in the day when you made me happier
Than something I don’t even have a metaphor for,
Just happy. Happy needs no metaphors.

I still check my reflection every once in a while
Never know if we’ll collide again anyway,
Best to be prepared but instead I
Drift aimfully towards a catacomb of eyelash wishes
And equally corny ******* I never believed in,
Still don’t,

It was getting at us, though,

Rubbing sandy fists down to the core
Instead of holding hands
Crunchy apple shell
Skin friction,
Bite the seed,
1,000 angry pomegranate teeth,
Chapped lips like crustacean shells,
Aligned like eye-freckles
Me looking like an unused punching bag,
You somewhere off in the distance,
A fading marble of plasticine light
On my wavering horizon.

Because yeah, you broke my ******* heart
You were novacane cruel and selfish
And so immature it stunned me
But you also taped it back into my chest
On the day we met so I guess we’re even.

It’s funny, already I can’t quite remember your voice,
the shape of my name in your mouth,
how you laughed,
but every word  you ever said
is still carved onto the back of my hand
like a roadmap towards all the ways
you showed me how to love myself.

Still rubbing them away with your scalding riptide,
All those words you said about forever,
Now just shackles,
So gladly did I submit to yours,
I still hate those ornery devices
Even now when,
They’re curled at my feet
Like broken wings.
mylo kidd Oct 2022
my mind tends to ooze with a negativity

that leaks out & into my already searing

and prolonged wounds;

within this ragged & treacherous steam of consistency

I find myself laid out upon the very gravelish grounds

that I goofishly juggle with on a lazen basis

sometimes there

sometimes here

but a lot of times just nowhere at all.

where I disappear to I couldn’t be sure,

the empty screen in front of & behind me

don’t speak of much

but they do tend to catch my demiseful falls

every now & then;

seems these cavernous valleys have a soothing touch

to them,

a loosely held comfort that I know

better than I seem to know myself at times

and at times I wonder

what I am supposed to be protesting

within these grotesqueful lines

of a beautifully laid out tragedy,

for even here I do not feel

within the bounds of my own mental safety nets

but maybe an unthoughtful falling & tumbling

will do me some good?

to be comfortable with my own deathly summons,

I write to edge the demons within

to a borderline of both peace & content,

for truthfully no set of letters

can taint me as much as I might allow them too

although I can tend to lean towards the waywards

of an apathetic crustacean

through my own carelessness & ill suited

self brought upon lonesomeness



sometimes I cannot tell what is right,

or maybe best is a better way to put it.

for I long for a connection of connections

and equally equivalent siphonings,

but many a times I seem to find

that my end of the line has gone stale,

quiet, a desperate yet eerie monotoned scale

of solemn notes left to ring in the ears

of those who are strongly enough

to take the time to hear,

and for those that are not afraid to stare

deeply into their own darkened & blazeful caverns,

I am forever grateful.
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
He commanded the tsunami
with great fighter skill
& rode through the surf
on crustacean shellbacks.

Skilled in the traditional arts,
he kept his katana secure.

For to look into his flame eyes
was enough to witness
your own death.
Slur pee Nov 2018
Nomadic motivation moves the masses at midnight;
Meandering, shambling souls moaning for innovation with
neanderthal persuasion. Keep the pace past paleolithic,
and gift the gifted with a wicked sickness. Instilled hatred,
From decades of desecration. The profound **** and violation
of the womb that holds all creation, our embryo of imagination
Decaying with elation while I shift my shells to match the constellations.

-SLuR
Bob Horton Nov 2013
In oil-painted brilliance their stunning resilience
To shame upon canvas is bound
As Jack the Crustacean expresses frustration:
Says "Terry! Stop ******* Around!"
He's spared all his blushes 'cause these ***** brushes
Can't capture his voice or its sound
But the sad situation still needs explanation
'Cause Terry's still stuck upside-down!
Derik M Smith Jul 2013
A spontaneous late night poem for my brothers and sisters in nerdom.....

I am a mudcrab,
Strangely out of place,
Where is my mudcrab love?

My sweet and perfect crustacean,
Come with me to a cozy inn by solitude,
Or down a warm, golden, path to a city of talented thieves,
Lets chase foxes,
Make fun of guards,
And get away with ******,

Lets think we are clever by cutting through the marked path,
Only to be blocked by snowed on mountains sprouting,
Lets hug the left wall to find our way back,
And scare away monsters with words we hear dragons shouting,

Lets laugh at how the Jarl sits like a lady,
Lets gripe about how the Agonians don't look as cool as they should,
Lets say that all the Stormcloaks are crazy,
And hope that one day they make a Star Wars game this good,

But in the end,
My hard shelled friend,
Lets return to our beloved swamp,
Where the giants and their mammoths don't stomp,

Lets gaze up at a sky that's not our own,
And count up our perks to show each other how much we've grown,
Since Helgen fell, and life was hell,

Lets share this road,
And be happy to note,
That at least we're no longer alone.

~Dovahkiin
Rachel Dec 2014
I did not have a dream but instead dreamt
of eating a lobster, crustacean salt of sea
I cracked open your arms to taste your meat
all salty warm butter you shattered
so easily, like my hands were meant

to break, or you were meant to be broken or we were
meant 
for each other
it was love I think it was love it was



a dream? I woke to insatiable itch
my skin flaking, then hardening over
I explored my arm with my tongue
and it tasted of salt crustacean
and the flesh wouldn't move it was
rock
maybe this shell will protect my pink insides
maybe this shell is my saviour but then
why can I barely walk

I felt very strong I felt protected, I turned
to demonstrate, to preform an act of magic
to make you disappear, to eclipse you
with myself

but you weren’t in my bed, you woke

alone, safely tucked away

love, promise me the summer

and your arms
your fragile bones
Sam Temple Jun 2014
**** stained drainpipe
raining pain
unexplained sameness
expressed
in veiny legs
egg salad crustacean
situationally challenged
prophetic procreator
bending spoons
and your will
shill trolls on and on
seeking weakness
tweeking while twerking
discolored molars twinkle
baboons ***
shiner dines on refined lime
mining dimes
unwound ground cover
lamenting
lack of green
queen like boy toy bounds across the turnpike
exhilarated and misinformed
dorm room ****
forlorn
sounding horn born of jazzy lips
quips to the mainstream
hipsterism is like a disease
complete with rashes and bumpy outbreaks
15 century rake awaits her date
and is placed on the stake
for a belief in an alternative
in the foyer of midnight
bleeding into the lucid gallery of dreams,
a cluster of curious voyeurs
wait impatiently for the floodgates to open

they shuffle in the misty air
swirling through the room
dimly lit
like a theater in session
feasting the hungry eyes of patrons
with gore du jour

blood red drapes ascend
as my guests are seated
in the dark still of night

a staccato drum roll shatters the silence
signaling the intro to...

scene I

a recurring theme of
the one-eyed carpenter
hammering a nail into my coffin

tap...
tap...
tap...

"It won't be much longer now, sir pablo," he snaps
between gaps of rotting yellow teeth

"I'll save the best nails for the house-warming...."

what a charmer.....I muse....hugging my pillow tighter

scene II

a gang of my favorite seafood - giant king ***** -
is chasing me
down flatbush avenue in brooklyn;
they are brandishing broken bottles, bricks and machetes,
chanting, "payback is a biyaaatch.......payback is a biyaaatch!"

my peeps in the streets do nothing
to save me from the crustacean beat down;
they stop and stare and clown
as the killer ***** corner me downtown
in a cul-de-sac...

with *****-f$#k!n friends like that....I cuss...
huffing and puffing between the sheets

scene III

the fat nurse with a cataract in her left eye
bangs on the door to my small private room
in the psych ward at byberry

"It's time for your meds pablo.....make sure you're decent now....
I'm coming in...."

I'm curled up naked like a fetus
in the far corner
teeth, hands and feet shaking
under the nervous spells
of mania and parkinson's

she jams a long needle into my back
and fills me up with anti-psychotic cocktail
my crack for the week

she leaves and locks the door

I roll on the floor
it's moving
shaking up and down
there is a quake in my head
It's a 9
the bed's coming to get me
I'm losing my mind
there's a fat lady sitting on my spine
I can't move
she has a gun
stuck between my eyes
It's loaded
a 357 magnum
she has a cataract in hers
It's cocked
mine gets bigger

she pulls  the trigger....

ringgggggggg!

my alarm goes off.....it's 6:00 am

I yawn.....stretch......roll out of bed

wiping the cold from my eye...


blood red drapes descend


~ the end ~

~ P
Poemasabi Aug 2012
pill bug
no insect

small crustacean spends entire life
on land

pregnant
carry young in a pouch in her belly

rolling herself into a ball for protection
from the likes of a harvestman
Using Googlism again. No new words added, only subtraction of entire or partial words. Kind of sounds like 2nd grade notetaking...

Also I needed a little lighter faire after the previous two rants :)
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
Creative Writing


Manchester uni,
Fifteen places, but that's it,
****, ****, ****, ****, ****.



The Fridge

I open the door,
But nothing has changed, no food,
My tears flow freely.




Fluffy

Fluffy the hamster,
In sawdust he hides plans for,
World *******.




Which is it

Some call my writing,
Insightful, to others it's,
Sociopathic.




2500 BC

I find peace in rain,
Ra, the Egyptian sun God,
Smites my insolence.




Look like Crab, Talk like People, Crab People, Crab People.

In the near future,
The crab people will rise up,
Crustacean war-fare.




Lunacy

Awake in my bed,
Pulled to open the window,
The moon calls for me




Lioness

Brave as a lion,
She does not show fear as she,
Devours her young.




97% Sure

Bodies in bin bags,
Powdered lime on window ledge,
Suspicious neighbour
JR Rhine Dec 2015
For Aleš, who reads pacifist novels during wartime

I

For the Millennials:
Victims of opportunity,
Saviors of humanity.

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

We, the Confounded Chiliads,
are the electrified pulsating
offspring of the digital age:
Serendipitous,
enigmatic
vagabonds of the modern world.

Standing juxtaposed between
two centuries,
two generations:
Redeemers of the new millennium.

We’ve read the writings on the wall,
for they have been by our own hand.
Blood dripping down the fluorescent page,
the endless scroll that consumes our gaze.

Gaping holes in our hands and feet,
screaming telephone poles pin us to the magnetic current.

We are trapped but we are not alone.

With every word we bleed,
with every eye to our flesh,
our cries are drowned in the digital void.

We have been washed away by alluded idiosyncrasies,
never unanimous nor harmonious;
feeling our fingers tie into knots,
mangled, finagled, wringing, hovering like a
Ouija board over menacing letters.

We close our eyes and feel them
burning within our skull.

So many voices, so many bodies,
pouring into our thoughts;
endless rainfall
drowning the long coveted silence.

So desperate for the parting
of ***** storm clouds,

for a sign from heaven
to pierce through the ceaseless night,

to cast its lovely gaze upon us
like a father’s warm and gentle hand,
lifting up downcast faces.

We toil in our anguish,
suffering information overload;
a whole race of individuals
accumulating into a massive “I told you so.”

Every wish, every genius mind,
every glance into the future,
every crystal ball rubbed,
Electric Eye awakened

as the dream sighs into existence;
the blending of fact and fiction
in the prophesies of Fathers Orwell and Huxley:
maddened forlorn oracles of modernity.

As we cross the rivers of Babylon
to find ourselves swimming in
the Fountain of Youth
we escape dripping, exhausted;
aching bodies shivering.
They drape expensive towels around us,
breathing warmly on our exasperated shells
of humanity.

Our mortal vessels no longer capable of
carrying our fragile identities,
we leap out of their torpid mouths
exposing the gelatinous crustacean.

Amorphous brain matter
sponge-like, soaking up
the sweat of our plunder and plight—
Clinging desperately as our liberators

pry us off the wet earth
like barnacles off a ship’s keel,
wringing us out
over the supper bowl:
the thin soup of mortal consciousness.

Feeling our voices and vices,
virtues and virulence,
mingling together;
meshing into one.

The hive mind descends upon us,
protruding a gaping straw
from its abdominous being;
sticking it into the electric ocean,
proceeds to **** life up into its
wrinkly, sickly tightened mouth.

Past the gleeful tongue,
down the throat;
tumbling over each other aimlessly
in the darkness—
limitless potentialities.

Directionless;
ambiguous
voices in the dark:
cavernous, mindless cacophony.

Echoes bouncing off
the windows of my soul,
I tumbled into the darkness
lost, and afraid.

“The world is yours!”

I never feel my feet stop moving.

Our nightmarish episode of consumption concludes,
leaving us moaning, naked, confused in the depths:
Haunting spirits wandering these novel dwellings
built on the backs of the olden brutes
and the barbarous archetypic minds of the Marxist prophets.

In this world of post-civilization,
we are post-human(e) in our efforts;
unable to gain a foothold in the foundation—
more quicksand than earth and stone.

Our seeds were thrown to the weeds and the crows.

II

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

I glance at the others: gangly gangrenous guiles!
Feasting on each other, never growing any stronger;
clawing out each other’s eyes, spitting in their mouths,
screaming utterances most foul in their ears.
Climbing over each other in the obscurity, unseen.  

I want them to take my eyes.
I want them to take my ears.
I want them to take my voice.
I want them to squelch the flame
that burns within my cadaverous chest.

Surrendering any chance of agency;
if there were hands to bite,
I couldn’t see.
I hear the voices shouting,
but I can’t cut through the discord.

What if I hold my breath?
But I know that won’t last.
Feeling my lips turn purple,
the kick drum in my chest:

furious relentless crescendo
pace quickening mind’s racing
all the sins in the world
rotting in my soul inescapable
pounding at the door
clock ticking through the floor
lungs shrivel can’t take anymore—

Exhale.

Panting, hands on my knees,
ears perk up to the sound of malicious snickering.
I lift my gaze up to an eclipse of the moon,
so ghastly in fresh blemishes plaguing its majesty.

Squinting,
I see smiling faces,
eyes full of mocking laughter,
belonging to snide children
anxiously peering into the crowded fishbowl.

They watch us squirm without water,
dancing in aching bodies,
craving the touch of something cool,
and refreshing.

They dangle hope and promise like
lifeless puppets encircling
an infant’s crib.

I watch them tie onto simple strings:
wealth, and
power, and
love, and
belonging.

Reaching higher, and higher,
straining formless muscles,
feeling weakness overcome
creeping up like a tired conscience
climbing over the golden crest
atop the transparent foothills
encased in the nicotine screen skyline.

It hangs its head low
on its hands and knees,
lifting up a weary voice
so familiar and ignored.

A final sigh ringing in the ears of a generation:
A cough, and then a final weak sputter:
“I Told You So.”

III

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

Anchored to the next big thing
sitting below deceptive still waters
murky mysterious
loathesome beast
peeking an eye out to catch us peering
over the edge of the docks
a glimpse at the promised eternity
immortality
delusion of grandeur
our eyes to the shore
nostalgia preserved
in the retellings of folklore
childhoods never forgotten
for fear of being lost in the present
and the forthcoming future
always a step away
how can we move on
when we’re busy cutting off our legs
to be eye level with our inner child
more like an exoskeleton
more exposed than our need
to grow
we sit huddled in our bemired despair
grinning sheepishly exposing our sin
crying out to the gargantuan
overlord of childlike fantasy
wielding our innocence
like a button-eyed ragdoll gluttonous treasure keeper
playing with fire in the alchemist’s den
so close to our material wealth
with the flames roaring lapping at our heels
feeling the dock begin to break from dry land
from the weight of our inflated consciences/consciousness
following the fangs of the snake to our parents
on the shore
with one hand sweating on the television remote
strangling in its grasp
they have no choice
but to squeeze the pump
harder and faster
legs of flesh and bone
break and give way
we begin to drift from the shore
pulling closer to the murky behemoth
that lurks under the perpetual offing
in the empty horizon we cry our broken hearts
into its cosmic bowels
feeling ourselves being sifted through
the hungry machinery of death
eyes luminous we shield our faces
from its rapturous gaze
fearful of the pillar of salt
that will stand in our place
but we look back
we take our hand off the plow
with ***** and Gomorrah at our backs
we peer through the electric eye
the sands of time
pouring through the hourglass
that spits us into the depths
of eternal strife.

IV

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!
Twentynothing!
Twentynothing!
Twentynothing!

Tw­entynothing in the classrooms!
Twentynothing in the workforce!
Twentynothing in the bathrooms!
Twentynothing in our parents' wars!

Twentynothing in the golden streets!
Twentynothing in the broken homes!
Twentynothing in the dusty libraries!
Twentynothing in the TV's drone!

Twentynothing in the Promised Land!
Twentynothing in the songs we sing!
Twentynothing in the secret plans!
Twentynothing in freedom ring!

Twentynothing in hands over hearts!
Twentynothing in our love in bed!
Twentynothing in the obscure route’s start!
Twentynothing in the lies we've read!

Twentynothing in the lives we fear!
Twentynothing in the scholar’s debt!
Twentynothing in our guns held dear!
Twentynothing in the tables set!

Twentynothing in the colors of skin!
Twentynothing in the reality show!
Twentynothing in the losses and win!
Twentynothing in the nightmares below!

Twentynothing in the kisses we hide!
Twentynothing in the I O U’s!
Twentynothing in the chanting of pride!
Twentynothing in the love you too’s!

Twentynothing in the hope we give!
Twentynothing in the dread they moan!
Twentynothing in the time we live!
Twentynothing in the chance we own!

Muse-less, useless, Twentynothing!

In the post-modern world aimless!

We, the Confounded Chiliads:
We are dangerous,
We are longing,
We are hopeful,
We are broken,
We are serendipitous—
We are eternal.

We Are Twentynothing.

…and that’s **** well something.
Written in Ginsberg's shadow.
little moon Apr 2014
a couple of days ago we visited a land inhabited by deceivingly accurate portrayals of life. we grew so entranced by everything we saw. we spotted a very strange looking crustacean flanked by a really thin looking squid positioned upright. she quipped about how it looked just like a pen, and when we went to the store we made it our life's only mission to find it and buy a replica so that every time we confessed to our journals we'd remember the day. but it wasn't there. i think about it now and i laugh because what kind of a mentality is that? to just be so sure that something will be there, will work out in our favors, will come back despite all odds. i can't afford to think with such ironclad naivety. people are not infallible. funny as it is, i can't expect to find a squid pen, and no amount of determination can make tangible something that doesn't exist.

but the whale, above our heads, floated as lifeless and seemingly ordinary as a chandelier. a half idyllic half menacing scene at the bottom of the ocean. we laid underneath it and felt so small. our worries and problems themselves seemed even more infinitesimal. i pretended i was submerged underwater, letting all of my troubles disappear and become one with nature, and she was the only person who could listen to my thoughts.
"we saw a weirdass squid"
JC Lucas Feb 2014
It’s not a question of
who
but a question of
where
I am.

I am the median between the street and the sidewalk
I am the threshold of every waiting room
I am the space between spaces
I am shadows looming
and fumes pooling above puddles
of spilt kerosene

neither seen
nor heard,
but felt
in the vignette of a dated photograph
the border between
fine
penciled lines

I am the mist after rain
I am scars
and streaks where tears have stained the shells
of crustacean people
I am crushing hangovers
and embers glowing

Who am I?

I am the
    spaces
       between
spaces

Stairwells and parking lots
unmarked graves
        condensation on a whispered word
     floating up into
     frigid twilight

          under an off-white
half-
                               moon.
Amanda Miller Feb 2015
Burgundy tassels sway in June water  
Resting among chartreuse vegetation.  
Ebbing with the current, a crustacean
Advances to pinch tanned toes. My daughter
Thinks nothing of it as she contently
Hovers among the playful fish kissing  
Each passion-fruit patch of sundress, baring
Delicate flesh beneath.  She was lovely  

And mine. Seven years have passed, yet her voice
Resonates in my memories, enshrined.
“Let’s go swimming, Daddy.” Love as my vice,
I gave in. The ocean, blue as star-lined
Nights, beckoned her closer, starfish snuggly
Grabbed her, an infinite bride of the sea.
Kevin Mann May 2012
I fold inward by the window all morning,
curled over the conch
I hold pressed to my chest like a child.

It is mine in the dark--
This Pale Sea. It whispers to me.
It says: a shell, a shell, a shell....

Then the shipwreck--
The Mist.
Oars rattle like bones.

Pink smooth ghost,
I am in love.

But our ship has sunk.

I am already a slug,
a salt, a crustacean.

                                                
                                        K.D. Mann
Take me out
onto the roller rink,
where, under the neon disco ball, everything turns
pink and hazy

Make me out
to be your in-line princess,
your ribbon-bred baby

Spin me 'round and 'round
drivin' me crazy crazy crazy

Bring me to my knees
sorry, you whispered to me
"oopsie-daisy"

Drop me to the floor
my crustacean legs
fold crooked underneath me like a crab
i skip back onto the tips of my toes
i cover up quick like a lady

Still, I wait patiently for more
Still, spinning under these hazy neon lights
looking for someone new again,
looking for somewhere else to score.
Nicole Mock Feb 2015
I hate birds but I've been teaching them how to sing
For you
Even though you lurk in the
Depths of my mind - surfacing
Momentarily at all of the wrong times
Torturing me
Alluring
Exhilarating- me
                        I could not imagine a single
                        Millisecond that you are not
                        Behind my eyes
I could not go a day without internally hearing your voice -
                       You are the ocean and I am the
                       Smallest crustacean - a bottom feeder
                       You are the moon and I am the sun
                       I die everyday so that you can
                       Breathe  
I could not live this life without you  
Even if it is spent away from you -
You are here
Within me
                      You are in every song I hear
                      Every sunset I see
                      Every inch of me burns with your touch
                      Why did I not leave a space of my own?
1, 1,00, 100,000 years from now
Even after out souls have returned to
Their rightful homes-
Yours the tress and mine
The constellations (opposites) I will love you
You will always be the first rock -
                       That started my landside
                       The first disturbance that caused my
                       Avalanche
The center of my being, my world, my galaxy, my universe
                       I want to die like this
If love were a window you were
The whole **** house
I'm not in love with anyone, yet most of my poems are about loving someone
CK Baker Jul 2017
they fell from a tolleycroft trawler
(about a mile off the gary dock)
tossed in a bottlenose gulf stream
partially pasted on ruk and crustacean
belly ******* ragged
fender bent rolling
drifting on krill chop
past o' malleys
down juan de fuca
rubbing grain
into the gun barrel sea

twisted benjamins
nipped by the hungry swell
blunt on a wayward log
deep in the gutty storm
slack jaw, skinned
medling
over phosphorescence
and grayling
and cold erratic flow
(oh those seedy finman!)

driftwood gorge
at celebration light
sun carts rise
to the homecoming
(**** that nuisance moon!)
crimson tide
and contraband
strung on the greyhound
intervention essentials
with menacing roots

these crackers lack
all disposition
and tact
an enemy mask
lies deep within
blinded rodmen
on a shoreline retreat
where the franklin bills
are spinning
Somehow the rest of the day
Fleeted like our fragile thoughts.

The preoccupied crustacean
Washed upon the shore,
Thanks to the high tide,
A swirl of earthly obsessions.

An old woman awoke early
In the morning to water her bonsai.
Who is that at the front door?
Who could it possibly be?
Was it the childbearing of symmetry
From a timid chamber?

Does a poet create poetry or does poetry create a poet?

Read and decide for me.

Originally written 4/10/11
Revised 10/18/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Kelly Oct 2021
bite with my words and
                           curl to my tongue
cold and abrasive,
                       so wryly stunned
defenseless defenses
                  with strain in my lungs
antecedently encouraged
          incentives to run.
Thurtle Oct 2017
the land of chicken teeth cannot be comprised
of fewer than 666 turtles in a half basket

teeth juice chromosome crustacean
sliding around on the stupid floor lol
give me a pile of french sausages
and i will geronimo to the dang old moon

flabby turtle skins in the basement
basketballs in the roof structure
foundations made of chicken livers on the whole half slice
free bird slicing through the plains of babylon

grand old gorilla grapes
frothing beneath the old turkey wallace
fumes from the farmland
henceforth cometh yon crustacean
Cali Feb 2017
the trees whisper
rustling, gilded intonations-
spilling secrets like honey
into the productive blue sky.
sunlight lurches through the trees
and cracks my foolish skull,
sending all of the thoughts
I had left alone in there
spilling over the golden
dappled forest floor.

you seep into my periphery,
delicate and half formed
amongst the moss and the earthworms.
I smile at the exoskeletons of
decaying memories;
crawl, crustacean-like,
sifting for something more tender-

dredging up phantom images
that flutter lazily across my eyelashes
and come to rest in greedy palms.
breathless mirth
and incorrigible melancholy
commingle in your shadow
and hold me fast.

you and I live and breathe
in the same stratosphere
and I don't quite know how
to let it go.

I miss you, and the words
twist around my fingers
like a rosary, pausing
at the accidental stutter
of my naked heart.
Adele Feb 2016
I'm going to leave the ocean
where I spent my whole life mesmerizing
the million contours of the sun

Oh, look at those lovely birds sailing placidly in the sky
Farewell to the tides
that washed the feelings that I used to hide

I am saying goodbye to the embrace of the salted air
The gentle breeze that every day whispers 'stay'

No one can't find me
not even under the surface of where the crustacean's play

I'm leaving this ocean
just like how you left that day
I'm tired of drowning
knowing you're no longer here to keep me safe
Jurtin Albine Aug 2017
crabwise crustacean
captured; legs ***** inward; flick. . .
golden draped white meat
In rock pools, tiny claws dual over colourful crowns
that were sent across the seas from the Gods.
The deadliest of gems sought for in crustacean kingdoms
like power.


Fish hide in bottles and swallow plastic shrimp,
while flotsam and jetsam decorate the shore;
toxic borders.


Albatross, guardian bird of the waters
we stopped looking up to you,
we stopped looking behind us to see if you were following
when we could fly higher, fly faster...
Jet power, metal wings, turbo engine.


Our good omens
Became measured.
Our superstitions
Became statistics.


I cry for all the canaries trapped in coal mines.
While we look for life on Mars
I feel dead on this ship,
but it's still floating, floating...
Written in Autumn 2013

— The End —