Schooner or Later Your Time Will Come

The world is being destroyed
by cheap special effects
ten colour two bit technology
crumpling at the edge
we were never destined to fold neatly,
you and I
and we shall never find one town big enough
for the two of us.

My downtrodden stringray sweetheart
gets to the point and jabs at the throat
with barbs in the flesh of imaginary men
cheek by hooked jowl as squid in a jar.
Seafood salad tsunami of tremendous intellect
spiteful spices and cracked blackpepper fields
harvesting the joy from all that noise
and selling it back to the poor.

Wrapped
in paralysis
he orders
one more
and dedicates (half spills)
to some name
and muttering shame
he rises and meets with the floor.

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