"crustaceans" poems
There once was beauty beyond belief
In far north Queensland’s barrier reef
Beneath the surface of the sea
There lay a world of fantasy
Amid the shallows of the deep
Countless crustaceans crawled and creeped
A place so different from the land
Until it was touched by humans hand
Now polluted by plastic sedimentary and decay
Has our only solution been washed away
Once a wondrous landmark to behold
Gone in a heart beat, the oceans tale, told
Although there a politicians that still deny
A warming ozone will bid the coral colours goodbye
Littered white graveyards accomplished the sin
If only we had thrown our ******* in the bin
A tremendous story of ecological distress
Hopefully we can learn from this disastrous mess
/gt
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
When the streets are made for nothing but thinking
It's the weight of the water that's caused our sinking
It's a loss of feeling that's made me lighter
It's everything around
That makes me neutrally bound
The only writers block is the writer
It's the kind of thing that makes a man with a pencil and paper a fighter
Like the paper's jumping up at you like a, like a alligator
But it's hard to chalk down all the mistakes, cause when you're trying so hard you're just being fake
You just gotta learn to let it, let it all flow
Show your all and let em all know
Just how you're feeling that blow, even if it means one or two bad lines, that's how you feel though
Cause life ain't a poetry book
It's all the points in between the pages that we missed
It's all the things that make us factories of emotions,
A crook with feelings creeping through the motions
Turning pages, trying to **** it all up like the books eroding
Don't you talk to me about feeling
Naw you ain't know what you be dealing, everyone's got there own **** you can't tell me mines to be concealing
See, I'm a material void of expressionism
Cause I told everyone what I feel, not for the sake of impressionism
They chose to see inside and learn a lesson without all the criticism
Everything I've learned is turning me into a crustaceans fossil
Hard to the shell but brittle to the touch, and I preach my **** like a god **** apostle
You make me feel from the inside and I'll be your crutch, but you're gonna need more than a god **** rock hammer to open me up
My words I mend to make up for what I conceal
But as I sit here thinking about how I feel
It's gonna take more than this to make me heal
Now let me dilute as I talk to the god inside my head and make a deal, something to end the pain and suffering I have concealed at the expense of everything real
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
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.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 8:30 AM UTC
She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.
David Foster Wallace wrote:
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve ******** philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”
*"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”*
and so
“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."*
As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.
They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.
And DFW famously said,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
and he's not a lobster either
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
The 'us' we see and
the 'us' others see create
unique duality
high wire balancing
praying not to fall
hard outer shell but
soft side within, not
unlike crustaceans
we scurry to and fro
intent with purpose
only when we're truly alone
be it crowded street or
safely home,
can both halves
combine as one
Finally at peace
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
Lobsters
@2014 Linda Barrett
They sit in the cramped corners
of the water tank
face each other
armored claws bound
with thick rubber bands
These shelled warriors
take on boxer’s stances
wait their chance
to attack each other
in impromptu bouts
They step over one another
pick fights for dominance
of their watery ring
Some desperate crustaceans
decide to make their escape
reach out for the tank’s top
but fall over backwards
onto each other
Those lucky ones
usually win
when the Seafood man
in his white coat
pulls them out
makes the champions
of someone’s dinner.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Last week we bought a bottle of epilepsy to share
at a party made to crash on dinner plates
rolling down uphill battles.
The clustering warm anticipation set to pounce falls short
with talks of who is late and who can't make it
because someone in the family disapproves.
Who cares about the bitter salt cakes in the dust of fossilized crustaceans?
The polar bears march to beautiful, pointless noise beating off the living receptacles.
The locals are scars in the conclusions deep in the visiting sounds—almost forgot but still murmuring.
The first citizens of noise.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Empty shells can only break
under the forces of our lives.
The muscles of crustaceans
help it cling to jagged rocks
as they bear the motions of the tide.
The ocean has no mercy
for those that dwell in the sea.
For what is a shell
but to be beaten upon?
For what is a muscle
but to live and die?
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience"
"we do not have direct access"
"to anyone or anything’s pain"
"but our own;"
"and even just the principles"
"by which we can infer"
"that others experience pain"
"and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain"
"involve ******** philosophy—"
"metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”*
- From Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace
David I've considered it and
I think she might laugh if she read
that a version of her
briny and spined
pint sized
now resides in the depths of my mind,
She might laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but it’s because, as you say,
one can neither comprehend the pain
of an exquisitely tactile lobster in a *** of boiling water,
nor walk a mile in it's eight lilliputian shoes
So I am left to wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
in her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to have quit school and
be back to her fathers house
on Prince Edward Island.
and what I'd want to tell her is:
They might try to butter you up,
bridle your anger with blue rubber bands,
Use their wooden spoons
to nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but as we know,
lobsters can live to be over one hundred years old
and grow to be over twenty pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae,
characterized by five pairs of jointed legs,
the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws
I know she knows how to use them.
Which reminds me of something else you said:
"Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."
A feeling I can understand
Though I'm no more lobster
than she
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
Hello, whale,
yes, you there wallowing
and swallowing crustaceans
with all your calliousity
and my insatiable curiosity.
What a laugh that calf
of yours was
when it frolicked up
to us diverse divers
wanting to be survivors
of its childlike impetuosity
and eighteen foot
preposterous, gargantuan monstrosity.
When you rose up underneath us
I thought you were going to eat us.
You scared me, whale,
when you flicked us with your tail -
the one you splinter yachts with
when you act as Davey Jones' locksmith.
Of course, I retired then
from my dive-in on leviathan,
happy to survive
your forty-five
tonne introduction.
Then you glided into gloom
and sang your eerie song
about your alien, baleen life
in vast, mysterious,
deep areas of oceans.
Good luck along the whale's road,
you mighty minstrel, you diva of the deep.
This diver hopes all humans and harpoons
will spare you and you can share
your song again.
God speed, whale.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
Just up ahead is a trail
Where people seldom go,
Sidling down the gravel hill
Into growths of ash and birch and elm,
Thickets of wild plums,
Chokecherries, leaves turning dusty,
Verdant armies of stinging nettles
Protecting coveted stands of juneberries.
Bittersweet vines entangle aged elms,
Siphoning life, to produce four petaled reds
As summer goes down to autumn.
Leaving the wind above
To batter the old truck,
I descend into the silence,
Trees stand tall, but low
Below the breeze.
Down in this steep place
The wind cannot come,
The sun, when it finds its way,
Warms gently on the coldest day.
The spring my father dug
Before I was born,
Set into the weeping gravel hill,
Runs steadily,
Strong enough
To fill the battered tank,
To keep a goldfish or two alive,
To host strange crustaceans:
Tiny shrimp, just larger than ants,
Pebble crusted creatures
More insect than fish,
Frogs in the tank,
Toads out...,
Mosses and mud
Thirty years or more
At home.
Deer come to this tank,
On hot days or cold;
Coyotes, too.
Porcupines dine on treetops
Swaying quietly
A hundred feet below
Wild Montana winds.
Cattle in winter find life
In the quiet, constant water
Flowing here.
I am taken back
To a stifling July afternoon,
But cool here in this protected place,
Dragonflies floating
And cicadas sawing in the trees,
My mouth full of juneberries
As I circle my way,
Eating more than picking...
Coming face to face with a coyote.
Was he dozing?
Passing through?
Or, do coyotes eat
Juneberries, too?
We stop hard,
Stunned.
Then bolt in opposite directions,
My juneberries flying
From the milking pail;
His tongue between his teeth,
Tail low,
Feet flying into the brush beyond.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
history -
a history -
I wanted to know what that sound was.
I wanted to know what made your hair so straight.
I wanted to ask you to kiss me on the cheek.
You told me the sound was an Aeolian harp
imitating a macaw.
I am a boy on a scaffold imitating a window.
My hair is always the wind's *****
So the trip was a disaster.
So there was
an insufficiency in my reassurances.
a crab in the bed.
a wish in the closet.
But I meant it. I did mean it.
history-
at least I knew where the sound came from,
who made it,
and why it was beautiful.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
You once lay with me under a blanket of sun
and held me in your hands. The texture of my
fine debris slipping through the crevices of
your fingers and toes.
You built me a kingdom by the seashore:
castles with towers for guards to keep watch
and dried up moats surrounding the landscape
of a desert.
Sea armies of adolescents would attempt to
conquer my walls but crustaceans armed with
a pair of Archimede’s claws would defend my
kingdom from such intruders.
But as the suns bulb became dim and burnt
out, the great big blue took over covering me
inch by great inch. My towers began to crumble
down, depleting all of my army and all of my castles.
You left me here for the ocean to take, but a little
piece of me snuck its way into your bag, towels,
hair, and shoes. And just like the ocean, you will
eventually wash me away as well.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
Come in all you children and dance upon the sea. The coastline tides are dancing and gallivanting on the breeze. The elephant seals are floating in their carcasses, warm blood lakes thicken on the foam, dancing in the ripples the shivers of Leopard sharks party's throw. ***** slugs and combatants, early hours send cries through crustaceans of the spine, and glitter muscles entwined with porpoise to drink their brunches with new recipes of the brine. Fairy starling, aching heartache, shapes each coil of the coast, and tears apart the stardust of starfish sliding up the coast. Drinking from the salt licks that falling waters move, inside the bay the bluefins escape the hunters in their shoals. The itsy bitsy great white, crept into the beaches cove, but orca and dolphin chased him back into the deepest azures where the fur seals pup and milk.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
My tears are the
drops of saltwater,
splashed onto seashells
that wait to be dragged back
into the ocean, but the tide
always fall short.
My cries are the
winds, whistling through
cracks and drowning out
the children's laughter on
the cool summer day.
My fingers are the crustaceans,
roaming the beach, looking for
comfort, but only finding themselves
preyed upon by the enemy.
*Her eyes.*
Her eyes are the sky,
shifting from dark to light.
Confused, broken, hurt.
Happy, laughable, loving.
*Her words.*
Her words are the lightening,
striking down; such
beautiful destruction.
*And her laugh.*
Her laugh is the music
that filters down to the beach
from the pier, just enough to
make you feel like you're home.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
my body yearns for her
the salty waters of birth
the powdered sands
of earth and dead crustaceans
her breath of brine
and heartbeat
encircling my senses
my soul yearns for her
the womb of life
the sounds of her tides
lulling me into slumber
the warm arms of her beaches
i long to be blinded
by the silver of her waters
to be annointed
by her cascading waves
i long to return
to the ocean
to the infinite wonders
that she holds
for me to carry home
to die and fade
away from her love
my Mistress calls me
my Mistress calls me....
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 10:30 PM UTC
***** and he
make their way
across the stretch
of sand
behind them,
the hard rock land
of memory
the crustaceans
will return--the tides
their clock
not he;
this march
is his last,
waves will
swallow him
gag him
while he briefly
forgets his purpose
and clings to
this world;
soon though,
his lungs with fill
he will sink
to depths:
a blue burial,
a seaweed symphony
his dirge
the ***** return,
but not he--the ebb and flood
of waters no longer
his province
(poem's image: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1174175556043500&set;=a.102525519875181.1742.100003531994461&type;=3&theater;¬if;_t=like¬if;_id=14914495906541620
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Winkles.
I remember these shapes that rise above the sand,
Covered daily by the tide as it reaches for the land.
Those little crustaceans that grow around the rocks,
Like a five o’clock shadow along the beach to the docks.
No need for a hook a *** or a net,
Just pluck them by hand as they cling to the wet.
Popped in a bag and taken home to mam,
Boiled in a pan that was used to make jam.
Armed with a pin winked out of the shell,
Better tasting than the shops sell.
They were free, they were ours and they grew on our beach,
All at a height most children could reach.
No adults to call us in for tea,
Just sunny days down by the sea.
As I walk along the sand, I don’t see them anymore.
Those funny little things what were they called?
You know their name, I know you do.
If I see one I will remember to.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 8:40 AM UTC
Standing upon the sea shore
I start notice that I see more.
I then begin to ponder
What's down there I wonder?
Planes and boats? relics of war?
Fish and crustaceans? creatures galore!
Perhaps I'll get a boat, something to restore
Yeah, that sounds nice.
With woodgrain décor
and Hopefully I wont crash
N ' end up ashore
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
River
Flow over me
Anchor
Steady rock
Crustaceans roll by
Iron stood
"Come with me my friend
Explore the wild wet world
Stick no longer here."
Brother eel
Slither lithely by
I am scared
Strong rock
Weak spirit
Conjoin
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
His middle parts were
Passing through the couch that I was
Sitting on, but his
Face felt nice and fuzzy.
And it was way too
Way too loud.
Ocean water, creeping
Up the black-sanded beach
On the island where
He drank his ***
And he's telling lies to any
Crustaceans brave enough to
Traverse his thinning limbs.
Yet, reflecting neatly
Off the ebony, and decisively
Catching his eye, is the light of her
Tiara, embracing her
Maneless neck.
In walks Nala, and the tide,
His tide, recedes.
The island becomes
Her savannah.
I watch him smile, and
Close his eyes, and
Soak the moment in.
Her claws extended, sharp,
Etching proof of her
Arrival into the eager,
Earthy floor.
Owning the steps she takes,
I shudder and attempt to stand.
But stop, as she paws his wrist,
Gripping it tighter,
Scarring him with
Pointed, filed nails.
Making him
Bleed, and making
Him beam.
Pride is just a
Noun when there is
Hemorrhaging to handle.
Pressure must be
Applied on all sides of the
Wound, in order to prevent
Infection, and infatuation.
But I guess when a
Beast of beauty, makes a black
Sea walkable for you,
You're liable to get caught up
Staring at the jewels
She's ripped out of her crown, and
Sewn into her hair. She'll make you
Hiss back at the sun, and
Talk about wild life.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
When words become ablation
And hands are merely frame,
I stand in hesitation
Avoiding vapid flame.
With lack of motivation
I stride with grueling step
To **** sordid crustaceans
Consuming my own head.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
Poetry is stuck to me
Like barnacles stick
To a ship permanently
Barnacally feeding by
Filtering the particles within
My brain from the oceanic
Water they are
Modified to sustain
Numerous crustaceans
Stuck inside my mind,
Rhyming words floating
With feathery appendages
Some sticking permanetely
From time to time
Yes, poetry a sea creature
With a shell that has fastened
Itself tightly to my brain
On a never ending poetic
voyage I will joyously sustain
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
Like Jesuits before
High-rise semblance
latex sunrise
The man removes his skin.
bunny-eared fantasies
ivory, piss-stained car seats
ignition.
Green poison darts. Drifting upwards
he drives aimlessly
Alone
pluming this commune
everyone is a girl
Selfish cognition.
Stabbed in the head with keys
between knuckles
like an unfurled hazard
rubbing faces in glass. putting pressure
On my teeth with my tongue.
it builds
Blind sea-life - crustaceans strewn
smashed & ******
on the cubicle floor. Knee deep
smudged and blurry.
He slowly
Disappears. I feel drained
Dipped in salutation
dripping kingdom
- Crust, licked off mouth corners
Bruised (angular cheilitis)
watery evening/moot
Picked up, and poured down the drain.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC