A crashing of cymbals, A crashing of waves

Sloshing around,

Under a dripping

Naked body,

Between  calloused ankles

And

Tired feet that act as dams,

To

Create a soapy tide-pool.

Water that drips down

From

The alert ear-lobes,

Like melting icicles.

Luke-warm icicles.

Can be found here.

Ribbons of water

Dance like

Falling confetti  during a parade,

Thrown by troubadours and

Smiling clowns,

Coming into furious contact with

Rhyme & reason,

Abdicating

Body & mind

Of all responsibility.

Then the water becomes stagnant.

The water becomes still.

This is no watering hole,

No place for

Carnivores.

This is no blue-lagoon.

Amoebas cannot exist here,

And wear lazy island hats made of straw.

The astringent nature of the

Soaps made mostly of syrup

Do not support that type of delinquency.

This same water.

With so many talents,

Doesn’t stir,

Or froth,

For long though.

Rocking back and fourth,

In a porcelain bassinet,

Like a porcelain baby.

An artificial ocean lulled  entirely to sleep.

Because in it’s short time here,

It does its best to

Do such an  astute impression,

Of crashing waves,

Upon eroded mountain faces,

…Minus the sound.

Differentiation is utterly unclear.

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