C. Tomey

Tomey claimed the range gun for himself
I knuckled the rum
for lesser fists clasp would dishonor a pirate's sage
rouge coiling a corkscrew tableau of opal rose
and of pearl
and porcelain shame
sun-bleached runners screaming in silver cleats
a naked wind aloft

Tomey in fits illicit with instruction to
maintain course
veer into nature's septic discharge with splendor
and spittle on his engorged lips encouraging
a madness ballet
a scene of violent demeanor, so the poem
in repetition reads

she rolls over sluggishly within the cage of my claws
her hips are the ocean swell
a canvas of pastoral current on some other ocean
than this
measured by depths too dark to send the plum
a ruddy breath sings yo-ho sending dancers o'er
the waves wearing turquoise tri-point
and cat's paw boots

Tomey, illicit still
somewhere a mariner of salt
still manning the range gun
lost at sea.

TA