Indonesian Dock Sucking Supreme

January February March
Or July
A moth’s eyes here can
Paralyze you to the thighs

Sea sprays the beach
Bends palms in desire
Turn their hearts to oil

Underwater
There’s nothing much budging

There’s the barnacle crowd
Positing one order
On another
Awaiting what never comes
But only returns

Even the end
Minding in the ocean

Better a lot
Of what’s wrong
Than a little
Of what’s right
Better a lot
Of what’s wrong
Than a little
Of what’s right

What you get
What there is
To be gotten

Indonesian dock sucking supreme