F Poem

All around I can't be bothered 
to make any progress.

I'm clung to the chop of life. 

A slippery boat in the greasy waves
who are rough-capped with sea, 
so the whales don't fish
and the sharks don't bite

or mind you floating through them
to a sandy bottom.

No sand but oysters lined with cuts 
and spikes on your feet,
pants filled with water 
itching pain from the salt 
licks every knick on your body. 

The rash that won't go away.

I'm clung to the chop of life
Have you heard?

Your glasses crushed so much
and the water hurts so much
to see you fall down it's not sand but oysters for a bed.