CRAB OIL . HANDS UP FOR GRABS

                                                                 
                                                                 
                                                                      "And in point of fact – there it was – pregnant

                                                                         again
after all these years.”
                                                                              –
Wilson Harris, “The Waiting Room

          
       Sworn to stay rid of colonizers, then news spread about
       a fungus lounge in the pancreas. Send down the mudloggers! clean
       deep sea avenues, boom drain experts in route canals.                        
                     It’s a card scratch to morrow about : mites gross in
       the coils nibbling our huddles . in the cane fields, over pet
       fur sheet strandings.

                                  The baldy man who walks angst hands
        behind back knows a thing or two URL hurlyburly three
        some chewing gum only half tease.
                      Fowlers on the coast wild ‒ like sand quick rich
        marchands, thumbs on Bedouin age wounds ‒ loop ‘n’ pen
        merde holds . infinglers understand what this means for colon
        passagens / hot in outhouses emission rules.

                        Meanwhile, asked what happened check tight first
        mating, an ex Carib queen posed . hips sealed : too much duck
        rubbery. Too much duckrubbery! that’s how iSash'on platforms
        glow . crude light, no quarter moons.

                                  Here's the latch : extract spats aside, fat
        pledges no longer analog leave little groom for flag raise lady
        crab hems . for fleas that pee red on the carpet, the potted
        plant seems Oh Dear! BBC metres off . air pocket views.

                                  These vapours, you breast heave, like host
        guest courtesy bows, could fade famously the old one cent
        stamp way; like my old aunt’s coin change purse . grip
        for fish rain days | Ok . who dives well not chest vested?
                                          
                                                                       – W.W.

       

           

 

             LESSING

         Checking on him from the saddle of his thighs,
         Her eyes those of a careful fox ensuring
         Its eating of a fellow was in service
       To this Other’s need and desire for change from one set
         Of buzzing atoms to another: that pure,
         For all her grunts, groans and yelps of quasi-words
         And her last smile: You me firs Brack. No difflence!

         (Her English wider than his Chinese or their
         Portuguese.)  Other gamblers too must have known
         Guanyin’s disinterested generosity
       As their Eastern trophy, but not known his afternoon
         With her in her busy but well-tended room
         Which she turned into the humbling Titanic
         Of his hubris of consumerist buying

         (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

  

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Author: FarJourney Caribbean

Born in Guyana : Wyck Williams writes poetry and fiction. He lives in New York City. The poet Brian Chan lives in Alberta, Canada.

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