a poem for you... tea for two. don't speak.

*Wrist or Pocket*

There are things that float like wooden blocks cast upon the tinyest sea inside our hearts and underneath our minds which wrap the up like blankets
These things we need to send to bed
Tenderly tucked-in inside a cradle nestled in the crotch of two branches of a weeping willow in the oldest forest where the moss just makes everything look so tired
And a blue haze rises from the hagared wood that once was vibrant and even mobile
These are the things we hold deep inside ourselves but keep dropping in a clumsy stupor
Sand clinging to skin and photographs of windy beaches
The waves beating against the shore in a rhythm that is reminiscent of what it must be like inside the womb
A drone and a rolling static
Repeated audio orgasms exploding in a Freudian symphony where you and Oedipus Rex dance the waltz
Or perhaps it is Jonah and Pinnocchio moving to a strangely comforting sound inside the belly of the whale
They hold each other tightly in the dark
Neither quite sure what it is the other is looking for
Pinnocchio just wanting to be real
And Jonah just wanting to hide
And all expecting to make love to God in that last golden fuck
That's why you and I should stand on the whale as if she were an island
We can set up a house made from rocks and driftwood and build fires using the oil from her baleen
And just let her skin burn
There are only two rules in piracy:
1) People come to get away
2) Being dry is just no fun