Silk is the sea,

Til the flayed blade snaps—

The jets barrel and howl

As black wink rolls,

and snarls.

Red-edge cock-head,

a glassy machine,

plough a furrow through minnows-

You cut angles in the cellophane

of a Dead Scene.

Stalked, maxed out,

Reek of peach.

You’ve taken and eked as molasses

recedes.

This ocean station communes

and connects,

In a fin-move the serene is jagged

and, next,

the moon purses lips and wets-

and then silence.

The glass is smooth

and sails in electric blue.

What a drag when it comes for you.