by Barry Basden
Tattered sails flap above the schooner,
all but worn out.
I am on the teak deck,
sitting with ladies holding parasols,
drinking mojitos and
watching the warships
maneuver off the starboard bow.
Violence and commerce
are officially in season.
wails toward the beaches.
Greenpeace hides in the seine with the bluefin.
Grappling hooks are brought to bear and
there is a jumble of silver bellies,
Later, we can hear
across the pearly waters,
giving up their young for base metals.
Albatrosses gasp in the waves.
A rainbow sheen rubs salt into wounds.
From inland comes a distant rumble and,
somewhere out in that wild yonder,
rusty car bombs
exchange furious needs
with predator drones.
Orange traffic cones stand guard
in the burning desert.
The ladies lift their glasses as
I toss the wreath overboard.
*Barry Basden has been published here and there and edits Camroc Press Review
- my writing style
- The best part
- STREET SEX
- The rain drops
- When I’m Drunk I Think She’s Beautiful
- I’ve Been In Love
- Sausage Fest
- In and Out of Mexico
- Slow Children at Play
- A little
- Not William Burroughs
- The sculptor looks hard
- FOR HART CRANE
- EXIT STRATEGY/SUICIDE OF AN AMERICAN PRIVATE FIRST...
- DOWNTOWN ALBANY, THE DARKBLUE WIND STREETS
- One of the Reasons I will Never Read Ulysess
- MILF IN THE SHOWER
- Tuesday Afternoon
- Imitation is the Sincerest Form of ...
- THE FIRST WEEK AT THE ARTIST’S RETREAT
- Adrift on a Black Sea
- ▼ July (26)
- ► 2009 (479)