GrindCraft

“MAKE SOMETHING!”

         it screamed. And so

the storm yacked out the scales,

complete and under-flipped in the grit

smacked the score straight, sandy and limp.

The worthlessness of scraping the bottom,

dragging dead weight across the mud

drudging up dead debris

that we then covet

and wield warfare for

as if it were something much more sensitive.

With the care and sweetness

of sinking shock,

of fingertips on a lover’s earskin and cheek,

we cut and crush our brothers’ guts

for ravaged shreds of OUR broken-ness

clawed up from the deep

every week

another hommage to another victim

on a screen that should have been

burned lastpreviouslypriorbefore

Because shadow play is intriguing

but if you’re going to war over

a splintered oar

from ages unknown

you might as well fuck onstage

and give them a real show.

Like you meant to all along.

“SHOW ME SOMETHING”

       worth blubbering over.

so the storm hacked up

another ball of eel carcass

    and driftwood

and you were revealed,

    your nature of ruining perfectly good

        remains

re-purposing porpoise skin and shards

in a timeless swing over your head.

your eyes shone proud, wild

at the prospect of wreckage

using blibber and blab,

as if it meant something.

And the crack of lightning

slithered down and struck

the muck you heaved up.

Immortalized it as a weapon.

And my fists couldn’t twist deep

enough, hard enough slammed in sand,

raging at the land for

encouraging you and your

stupid stand

against an enemy of your own brand

by your own hand.

Took in a mouthful of sand last night

for no reason at all.

But it added more weight to the riptide

more imprint to the fall.