"skipper" poems
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall, Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell
I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within
She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention
The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong
When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow
Let's set a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***
Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for ice-cream"
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.
A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
**** EVEN Tacit Rainbow.
What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.
Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist
Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
Hound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petrel
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Maverick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw
Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
The first new star flashed waves of blue tonight ,
securing my belief in the afterlife
A grove of ferns lit my imagination
For I became a shipwrecked captain -
that stumbled upon an island nation
Exploring the deep jungle without machete ,
potable water nor compass
Knee deep in mangrove forest
Tropical winds whispered and moaned
A lean-to of fronds became my maritime home
In the presence of a million stars
An army of sand ***** paraded before -
their newfound master from near and afar
Crashing waves lulled a poor sailor to rest
The whispers of Poseidon
A dream about a lookout in the crows nest
Counting orbs in the tail of the Milky Way-
with visions of mermaids , ghost ships and rogue waves
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
1656
Down Time’s quaint stream
Without an oar
We are enforced to sail
Our Port a secret
Our Perchance a Gale
What Skipper would
Incur the Risk
What Buccaneer would ride
Without a surety from the Wind
Or schedule of the Tide—
6.8k
Skipper Kevin Sinfield
Rugby League man who’d never yield.
Inspiration to his team,
Leeds Rhinos: Living the Dream.
Paul Butters
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
**I **** & it's okay because
I **** for my country**
*Wait no, that was a father
that was a son
I watched the life ebb from
the body of an uncle
whose favorite color was green
who loved old music.
I turned this husband,
this pro stone-skipper
into less than a corpse;
into a statistic
a number.*
**I **** for my country**
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Blue is not sure where to find the propeller.
The motor boat sent to scotch the shimmer. The waves
break inside a jar, and the little pieces are swept up by the wind and made into mist.
The Jar is shaken, the titanic sinks,
and the seagulls peck at our eyes.
Covered in barnacles, the new-found fish men
wander onto the sand and get coated,
as in cornmeal,
ready to fry.
Infatuated and floundering
they wander
to water again.
Drinking death hand over fist,
they ring themselves out with simply a twist.
The fish flap their fins so forcefully;
trying to
be flying to
a sea called the sky.
With a crumbled-ed crust they say, “motherboat or bust”,
but the navigation of aviation is a compilation of great frustration
for fishes whose function
is on boats, wrapped up
in those silly greatcoats.
Yet they made it, or so they claim, and with only one flounder or flunder who had made a blunder to blame.
If only old skipper had been a bit quicker, he wouldn't have had such a queer story to claim.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Your home in White Rocks Marina you sat; always there to greet your crew before a voyage. Your red sails standing out among the rest. Silently awaiting your Skipper, our own George Hay Kain, as you rested in your slip, anxious to get underway. You wouldn’t make a sound as you patiently waited for your crew to load their gear down below. After quick yet thorough engine checks your Yanmar engine would roar to life, never failing to put a smile on your Skipper’s face. Your stern lines would come off. Your excitement would rise but you would remain still waiting to be completely free. Your bow lines would come off. You then would gracefully back out of your slip, ready for yet another adventure. Onto the Bay you’d go, wondering where you’d end up next. No matter the challenges you faced, whether in the open ocean, or in the Chesapeake Bay; you always brought your crew home safely; you always prevailed.
My personal experiences aboard never left the Chesapeake Bay, however, the Bay was all I needed. Each moment I spent on board; each trip I attended; will remain with me always: My First Voyage with our Skipper, Branson, DJ, and Sam; Chestertown; simply preparing you for the winter; Long Cruise; Hurricane Irene; Your Final Voyage.
So faithful you would be for your crew, for your Skipper; harsh conditions or not. You may not be resting in your slip in White Rocks Marina, anxious to get underway, but you will always be in the memories, and the hearts, of Skipper George Hay Kain, and the crew of Sea Scout Ship 25.
May you now sail freely across the horizon, out on the open ocean,
Kuan Yin.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's ****
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine,
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.
1.8k
As I lay beside the pound the organic sounds mix with the industrial ones coming from the concrete structures not more than a few good pebble skips away; for someone who is an experience pebble skipper at least. I always envied my male friends at the river, grabbing a small rock and persuading it to transform into a water crawler as it made it’s way across the tea colored water. My stones never did that, they were determined to act like stones; sinking into the brown abyss with one big splash. The sound of the water filling the gap my stone fell into, the swift reminder I could not convince the matter to do as I please. The sounds around me now give me a peace as I hear them. The vague rustle of the leaves as a working bee buzzes through them, bravely determined to fight through the grass jungle to reach the sweet nectar on the flower that resides hidden inside.
Nature always has a way of projecting a determined spirit; I can see it in the weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalk. No matter how many times they are damaged, torn, poisoned, or malnourished, they always strive to grow. They have never ceased. Not once have they given up, they have a natural hope they hang onto. That they can recover, no matter how much they’ve lost. Organic life, nature, brings hope; it brings the wish of recovery, the willingness to adapt, and the ability to change. Just as the rocks leap from my friends’ hands, and turn into something they’re not, choosing to become more than a stone, refusing to sink. This is what nature brings. It brings Hope.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
rain fell while we swam
hurriedly packing our things
I wrapped you in a towel
then ran down
down
to your house
dried your hair
played with Niki and Skipper
waiting for the turkey
had a drink with your mom and dad
then turned to you
arms wide, heart sad
you fell into my hug
looked up
I woke
up
.
.
.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's ****
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine,
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.
1.6k
My body rippled as I swam into the river that ran through the town,deep and muddy brown with water washed down from the hills.
And rippling, I got my wish and turned into a silvered fish with golden fins to help me swim, down, down, down and deep within and under water.
Glad I brought a snorkel tube.
With ruby eyes and skies that faded into black,I watched a rack of pilchards passing,no sooner followed by a schooner of gadding tuna who watched two angel fishes trying to copy flying fish and failing.
A sail appeared,quite weirdly in the deep which keeps its secrets free from damp,
and then a lantern shone on me, a voice boomed out,
'what make are ye,
starfish,garfish,cod or roc?
A shock to me under the sea to be accosted by a skipper with a lip of larceny and what would I answer,could it be that I should not swim in the sea?
A fish
a wish,
one unfulfilled and killing off the thought I'd ever be
a citizen
of planet sea.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
Where is Ken?
He's such a doll!
He and Todd are dancing with Skipper
grinding to "Milkshake"
Another round
for the ladies
sitting by themselves
in the corner
Thanks for the drink, sucker!
you can go away now
We're here for the free *****
on Ladie's Night
All men want
is to get laid
another round
of Rumple Minze!
We have mates
they are on the dance floor
grinding on Skipper
She's such a *****
All men want
is to get laid
another round
of Rumple Minze!
We love our men
like they love
their *****
"straight and to the point!"
Hey Ladies
I am genuinely nice guy
highly educated
a few pounds overweight
FU** off loser!
***
How dare he talk to us
Yuk!
We have mates
they are in the parking lot
grinding on Skipper
She's such a *****
All men want
is to get laid
another round
of Rumple Minze!
Where the hell did they go?
They left the club
with Skipper
She's such a *****
Don't worry Midge
i'lll drvesed us hoooomee
b
u tttttttt
f ir
s
t
another round
of Rumple Minze!
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When pirate ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
Captain **** stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
First Mate **** went to the **** deck,
His willie at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For trainee pirate Freddy.
"Thtwap him o'er that cannon, ladth!"
Roared the hirsute lisper,
"Gag hith mouth thecurely, ladth,
Thilenth hith evewy whithper."
The pirates did as he had bid -
Refuse and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
Once First Mate **** had finished.
The lisping brute went up the poor young lad
And soon was pumping away;
Poor little Fred looked rather pained -
As he wasn't really gay.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they joined in with a will;
Little Freddy could not say "no"
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our pirates had,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And the skipper wore silk *******
The pirates' frigates ruled the waves -
Good sailors feared them coming;
If captured, they'd be condemned
To a life of seaborne bumming.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
Did you ever, as a child, chase a butterfly,
A tiny Golden Birdwing, perhaps
Or a Bronze Roadside-Skipper?
Flitting, faster than an arrow,
Over a rusting wheelbarrow fortress,
Under an electrified washing line,
Dive-bombing plastic remnants
Of the light infantry,
Before spinning away,
Courting the breeze in a whirling dance,
Winged-eyes blazing bright as childrens' buttons,
Vanishing in a cluster of gold chrysanthemums,
Reappearing, fluttering freely,
From a sea of bronze fennel.
Did you dash dash dash,
Arms flailing madly,
Mouth locked in a giggling grin?
And did you ****** ****** ******
Tiny hands grasping, clutching at air,
Desperate to hold natures princess?
Do you remember?
Dashing, Snatching, Grasping,
And suddenly,
She Was Gone?
And did you dare peep, clumsily,
Into your tiny hands,
Between your fragile fingers,
Half afraid you missed her,
Half again, you may find her,
Crushed In Your Hands?
The quest for desire is a chase,
So demanding,
So determined,
So distracting,
Attainment without consequence
Is your end game,
And is all that matters
Until you face the consequence
Of your end game,
When all that matters
Is What Remains In Your Hands?
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Aristotle at my fingertips,
not locked in soliloquies I may perform,
but heard from an Oxford don I have
in my pocket,
as I lean into each lesson and trudge
up and down my morning
constitutional,
where the firebreak meets
chaparral alive with cottontail
this morning, when I almost said, "it's too hot."
C'mon, walk a mile with me… like
on the road to Emmaus, but Christ, no;
this character,
a soldier in me, about to salt out, bids me,
walk a mile, "not two, one
does the trick."
The thought comes
as a dare from the Ralston Purina guy,
and I stepped onto my trail.
I dare think Aristotle's thoughts after Plato's,
thinking
I could have known this when I was younger,
but not to this degree,
if I had not dropped out, and never knew,
by rote,
to pass a test, that
"All men by nature desire to know."
This is
Curiosity, right? I suspect it is a gift.
The joy we find in sensation, proof
offered the gainsayer,
I say again, that which is good for nothing
never
never
naturally exists, so
what tool forms an eye to notice that…
see, through the window
of my poetic-pathetic e-thoughtic soul
a feathery
family of phoebe birds, flits by,
if that is the proper name
{Tufted-Titmouse, my AI replies},
tails reflecting a smokey blue hue,
they swoop and flutter past;
I see
in a non-imaged flashpast pattern
from a time in the summer of 1969…
Disneyfied trails
from Cinderella's dressing room
scene, not seen, but reminded of seeing,
the pattern, in this phantomind dance,
being witnessed now, as
this old soldier once saw it
performed by bluer birds than these…
Time skipper
shifts to another bubble intersecting mine
and
I hear a worried neighbor fret about the fire.
I almost say,
"One of the benefits of being
backedup to the cloud,
nothing to lose."
But I remember, she collects purses and shoes.
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 12:16 PM UTC
Jeg ser din lyse silhuet i mørket. Den høje figur, med en smøg i hånden og et smil på læben. Du står bare der og kigger. Hvad mon du kigger på? det som om månen oplyser dig, dig og dine smukke træk. Mit hjerte går i stå da vores øjne mødes. Det var virkelig dig. dine øjne er varme og blide, men de kigger lige igennem mig. Skipper dit hjerte også et **** når du ser mig?
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
I'll tell you a tale
of our own Devil's Island
and the demonic crash
of the waves in a swell,
the smell and the taste
of the ball-breaking weather
the ghosts that deliver
poor sailors to Hell.
We were out in the water
amongst our Magdalens
the wind plucked the ropes
of our rigging at sea
we looked for a port
and saw many lights flashing
“that's old Devil's Island,”
said the skipper to me.
Ghosts began hurling
their fierce imprecations
to “come to the Island
safe landfall to thee”
but the skipper turned round
the ship with a vengeance
“that old Devil's Island
will never catch me.”
I thought he was mad
to be scared of a legend
it was my first time
in a storm on the sea
and two men washed over
to Davey Jone's Locker
“God bless 'em, they'll rest now”
the skip said to me.
Protesting the treatment
of two forlorn sailors
I said to the skipper
“It's not good to tell”
“It's better,” he said,
“that they're resting in Heaven
than entering into the portals of Hell.”
Winds lasted the night
then the voices did falter
the lights blinkered out
and I saw very well
so many rocks jagged
just waiting to smash us
The Devil's Isle gateways
await in the swell
If you're on a ship
and the voices of demons
come tell you it's safe
in their harbor alee
remember the shoreline
at old Devil's Island
then turn the ship seaward
and gracelessly flee.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
She's short.
Shorter than me. About 5 feet and one measly inch. Grant it I'm only two measly inches.
But I'd hug her. Wrap my arms up and around her teeny shoulders and back around her small frame.
I'd hug her. Tight and close.
She is the smallest of the three of us. However, she's the oldest. She will be twenty tomorrow.
I'd hug her like the first time I left her as she went to her decorated dorm room for college.
I'd squeeze her. For as long as she would let me hold her.
At that time she had just wanted to be free. A few months later she cried to me about how she wished she was home, back in bed sleeping beside me the way we had spent most of the last two years.
I miss her. Oh, how I'd hug her.
Skipper. Petit and sad. She sometimes hates the hugs I give her.
My mom always says she is lucky. She needs someone as warm and loving as me.
I'd hold her, keep her there until I had to let her go. Or at least until she made me. Yet, I know she cried too as she walked away and we stood and watched.
I wish I spent more of my summer a long side her. I regret it and I'm sorry I didn't.
It may have been her last summer home.
I didn't even drive her to Colorado. She didn't mind. She was excited for her new life.
If I had spent my time with her I would have made her miss me. She would want to visit.
I'd hug her. My arms around her bony back. I'd hold her.
Keep her for my own. No one could touch her. No one could hurt her. Not even herself.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
"See, the thing about life is,
You're quite lucky, really, until you're not.
That's how it is with everything.
There's really no grey area; everything's just windin' down to when you're **** outta luck,
And when you're there, it's quite sobering, isn't it?
Take Skipper, for example.
You know, you fill 'er up,
And you think to yourself
'Man. I am so ******* lucky.
How did I get so ******* lucky?'
Because you can go wherever the hell you want to on that 300-or-so miles of gas.
Because you, my friend, are the perpetual white, privileged, American girl who has liquid gold pumped into her lousy little heart every fifteen days or so.
Because you can.
And you feel good. Really good.
But then, you forget about it.
The thing is, you are 'so-fucking-lucky' for like two weeks or so; you just don't notice, see.
'Cause nobody notices.
You just drive because that's what you do.
And you've got other things to think about; where you're going, who you're seeing, how you're getting there.
And you're 'so-fucking-lucky' until you hear that sickening little beep that tells you you're on reserve.
And everybody does the same thing.
Everybody asks a lot of stupid questions.
Your almost-empty tank consumes your mind.
How can I pay for the next one?
Man, I should really get a better job.
Let's see, when did the reserve light go on?
How much is left in there?
Can I get home?
Can I even get to the next gas station?
What if I just left this godforsaken town and let my car just break down somewhere and I would finally be free?
Will my parents be angry that I'm filling up after half a week?
Will they question where I've been?
Do I even have my license with me?
Maybe I shouldn't have driven around so much.
Oh god, maybe I shouldn't sneak around as much as I do.
Why am I driving at night just for the sake of driving when there are starving kids in Africa?
Ugh, I disgust myself.
The gas tank owns you.
Emptiness owns you.
And such is life, you know?
Because we don't even understand things unless they're full or empty.
As humans, we just don't.
We're always waiting for the reserve light to turn and the questions to be answered and that ache in our hearts to go away.
You know, we always sneak around 'trying to get home' on fumes.
We go slower, thinking that'll help, and we turn off the ignition faster, not bothering to finish up that last good song as your car wastes fuel in the driveway.
We're consumed by the thought of when our engines are just going to die.
Because you're just ******* empty at that point, my friend.
And then you're not so ******* lucky anymore."
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
The Skipper -
welcome aboard The Lady Mother Earth
if this ship sinks, it will probably take a while
DO NOT PANIC
MUTINY WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!
some may still have to walk the plank
after sinking
lifejackets are available on the starboard and port sides
when looking toward the bow
the left-hand side is the port side
the right-hand side is the starboard side
sometimes you may have to switch sides to keep her from rolling
we do not want this lady to roll!
first, it will tilt to one end or the other
the bow is the front end of the ship
the stern is the rear end of the ship
the stern will probably go down first
you all will probably run to the bow, in that case
sometimes this can cause a teeter totter effect
sometimes that effect may keep us afloat for a while
sometimes not
although this ship was built
by the finest ship builders ever
the stern has less mass, but more density
we will have no time for physics lessons, if it starts sinking
deckhands, cooks, and even gilligan, must work together
WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST
I will surely go down with the ship, if she goes down...
for now, let's just try to sail on, and not think about it
let's think of charting the best course
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 1:31 PM UTC
we hang on to that ****** thing
hoping it will bring
us luck
does it?
does it?
the **** it does.
shove it,
don't hang on
don't love it
In these vaults where faults are bound to overwhelm me
the Skipper's all at sea and we are all alone
a helmsman with no land or home to tide him by
a reason only if to
if I want to
want to
die or why it has to be this way?
An Oracle would bid me sit and say.
'why hang on at all
Rome built in a day will fall'
it all takes time.
Time is just a cross to bear
a watch to wear,
a moment
dare we look?
dare we
do we give a **** about that thing?
what thing?
I've moved on away from that thing
that thing never did me good
I thought it would,
at one time
I thought the World was flat
that thing
circumcised my brain
colonised my train of thought
I need a ripcord
a Gordian sword
I found it in the word.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
How could I service the demons?
So colorful is the score.
I forgot my place once writing began.
What the hell is a poem for?
(mind your head,
once the elephant said,
"such ego will stain the door")
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC