The soothsaying ass of the upturned sea
has pickled brays that turn to gaping yawns.
He beckons lost sailors to his haunt
and floats by crumpling water in his wake,
which turns into a marbled haze. His skin,
thrown over his arched body, brews to the black
and blue of waves that turn to the slippery black
of ass ears while they blend with the cloud-mirrored sea.
Though he once skimmed the shores for sailor skins
or bubbled brains, now he wades with summer yawns
and the passing bait who goad the brine – they awaken
sea foam with each splash. The sea-ass hunts
his malformed prey in sleepless virgin haunts.
At the break of day, his bray, one long black
siren, spurs the bedlam chum to their wake.
The furthest fringe of fungal slime and sea
clings to the moans of victims, but he yawns
at their frenzied efforts to escape his skin –
each joint tightly mapped to the tips of skin
on discarded skeletons. But the haunt
has a way to seduce you, hunted: through ass yawns
that promise you truth, the soothsaying black
one answers with the motion of the sea.
(His eyes mirror his wake;
each wave’s veil compounds the fishy wake.)
Bury the names that cling to your skin
as you dive into this marbled haze of sea.
You’ll see you married hate. His forlorn haunt
becomes your desperate state, his quiet, black
humor tires of your deadlocked mate. He yawns
into a conch shell’s hollow, and his yawn
dissolves in the salty breeze and in the wake
of his water-worn suit of over-worn black.
The coast replaces the murdered gown of skin
that graced your back before the sea-ass’s hunt
stole it from your nameless haunch. This is the sea
that slips your tender muscles free from skin
while black brays rouse the hunt awake.
Here yawns the soothsaying ass of the sea.