Short Waterlogged Poems

waterlogged leaves
of sunless week
— mottled ceiling

8/1/2018...

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Washed on riverbank,

pallid wrinkled waterlogged.

Mud cloaks where you sank....

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The fish swam around
  curious what he found
A brand-new ranch house
  floating in Puget Sound

Nothing for him there
  so he just shrugged
Unlike the poor humans
  their home waterlogged...

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The dishwasher watches, waits confounded
as knuckles redden and waterlogged fingers
scrub and rub in a slick soapy dance.
Later I will explain to the machine
that it was made by atheists to replace prayer.
Meanwhile bubbles pop their silent hallelujahs.
Hands toil at their holy work....

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A smile becomes too hard too hold
When waterlogged and under pressure
So my face crumples in
And folds up into new patterns
I've never never let you see before
Transparent as rice paper, delicate;
Not so graceful as a paper crane
Near as fleeting as a paper boat
Vanishing downstream...

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drifting ...
desultory and dour
tossed by a testament tide of
the ocean, mortal -
weary, waterlogged wood
shed in a storm by some mighty oak
intended of grander things
now bare and barkless
smooth, stiff, sullen atop the sea
all those dark, oily devils
drowned in the depths
beseeching me -
"swallow!"...

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Only full of jibber jabber
Blabbing rumbles goppy blubber
Chat so lots it seems a big ole sea
That bellows jiggles up the sunken ladder
Waterlogged a smullen button belly
Swollen tub of lardy squishy goo
If only spit out complitastic words
Scales and skin could sag down too


Not sure if this is right but it was fun......

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I feel solidified
Captured in blue-green horizon
They are eternal and faceless
My lungs; brown paper bags deflating
My milk structures are curdling
There are tiny mouths taking microscopic airs
Aerated and heavy as oxygen in a stone sphere
Gaumless and watched by black-ochre shadows circling
Compacted as mud underfoot and crushed
By reaching hands exploring my hollow flesh
Taking me further down and circles of dust
Rosaries in waterlogged,...

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Her puffy face,
Bears no grace,
Her look; stolid, vacant,
And expression absent.

Malar flush, 
Contrasting yellowish tint,
Of velvety skin,
Resembling a peach,

Flabby tongue,
Thickened and broad,
Tardiness of speech,
And sluggish to respond.

Her dry, coarse skin,
Has elasticity lost,
And covers underneath,
Lots of subcut fat,

Swelling of the face,
And swelling of the limbs,
But waterlogged they are not,
Apply pressure, yet pit they not....

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She sat, curved over the high red wall,

the rain fat about her face and shoulders

and straining off her naked toes like liquid fire.

She sang, waterlogged as her breath or bare skin,

her lips heavy with meaning and her lashes with faith, and

her hips engraving themselves in ridges like stutters

as her notes drenched the sky right back –

fell through worlds into his hungry mouth 

as he screamed prayers from his knees in the dark.

discordant melodies, all....

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