Wet hair, wet fingers

Bloody hell, the sky is clear
And I'm here to write poetry.

When sound doesn't do it for me anymore,
I do something for it in return.
Sometimes with wet hair,
Other times with wet fingers.

I used to call myself the sailor of my feelings,
But haven't done much of that since,
So I don't think the liquid justifies the inkling.

(unfinished due to thoughts about sinking)


To the light of day my sadness seems ridiculous, impossible,
A tale of introspective boredom.
The sun shines a bright light inside me and everything becomes white and indistinguishable.

Joy is but a star
Drowned in its own flaming crest,
A white wind spread across my window.

Without light I am shade and doubt,
I think about truth and expound it through to the gorge
Never to be seen again.

Our Sun, who art in Heaven.

Foot soaker

I'm a foot soaker
But still unaware of the process by which things become grey.
I'm a foot soaker so I speculate
The ray hitting the sail and taking it
From creak to river, from river to sea.
Colour and life dissolving in the late afternoon
Into a vaccum.
How am I still unaware of the process by which things become grey
At least one time a day?