Quotes
none
Articles
Ego
Links
none
|
Suspect Port
Brooke Barrasse
30 Apr 2003
Purple is what I think of when I see Myself surrounded by fish guts and wooden buoys And the heart of the ocean was never worn by me, But made it through the sixteen St. Louis.
The toasted sands uphold their grit in sandals As the seagulls cackle in the air and the ocean waves crash into where The rush of tows and tides are too much to handle And my soul blows back and flickers like the wick of a fragile vigil candle.
I am a little kid like a fish feeling sometimes inside With my small hands and arms fogged by salt and sea alarm And the sting of the water in my eyes Writhing like a toasted golden scale in the fry.
When it's late, my fingers try and abandon me Like the sway of the boat in the dark stepping wrong and missing my mark And a kiss on the porch is emotional debris And the uneasy moves above a tolerable degree.
Walking along the lamplights toward the end of the pier I see a couple kiss at the end, above the suspect port and Ana Maria is there, beside her consort But all I can think of is inside of you, so close I can't even hear So I scamper back down and stop at the pub and grab a beer.
|