JB Mulligan

The bote reals drinkenly sinkenly
abowed and abaft and abattered
from paw to paw.

The wind is a chryor of perverted angels
billowing cant and dont
in a dark cathedral
under an absence of stars.

Th'accomplass clings to Mother North,
the georoscope spins lies of balance,
a plane truth vivisecting
the mortisected sea of dreams
and disperate games.

Watertite and likkersober,
the captain hangs on a bending mast,
surveying his demean,
twisting in wind
and shouting at the dirty birds
that fart and speyral abote,
the crows nesting
in his hair and the bulgant sails.

He sings, "Could I but shipwrack
on a shore of distant rosies,
where the applepetals taste so swete
and the native girls strike posies,
I'd niver cry, nor curse my lot,
nor thumb at others nosies."