breaks the ayre waves,
tidal-powered pools
dried, applied on graveyard days.
make me painted brave,
a white ghost haunting,
hunting for a resting place
gilded and gliding,
rankless and writhing
chained up to the tides of better ways.

coming, going, lapsing and lapping
pleased as a summers day
to soak up, dabbing away
the vibrant laughlines of the world.

Draining, drawing, determined,
from one to another
like test tubes fated and tied
experiements where your inner child died:

rest in peace
Freud the Butcher
slaying millions in hindsight
your greatest crime
was being right.