I slept in a room with dead men all
sea faring, ship wrecked men
with explosions for ear drums
and Nazis for thumbs. Casts
of democratic Dum-Dum
documentaries. A crew of
Buzzcut corpses, bloated
on buoyant mothballed—Battle stations!
I slept in an always alive
red lit room, with dead men as
comforting as a battleship’s
ping to a submarine.
Night was not alright under
Her deck; the smell was
the chamber of a revolver:
the Blue Ghost’s belly
dozy in red blow and
Her cozy rusty babes
birthed to sea while sleeping—drank in
by the blue deep reaper
born sailors wrinkled in oceans
drank in by tiny bits: ball sacks,
toe nails: debris, scalps driftwood to shores
buoyancy doesn’t comfort me. A call to all—Battle stations!
Without a Guppies’ chance
for a simple prayer.
Chance is a corpse for
the cod and crustaceans,
Those lucky ensigns
are graced with chance
to leave echoes: apparitions in
cock-pits; haunts that tap and
twist decommissioned doors. Arise—Battle stations!
& they’re still anchored by the hull’s hole
where they pick their teeth with torpedoes.
& plea for a mother’s help or yelp
to any god & haunt—Battle stations!
they slept in sheets like folded
flags; the fermented men now
sleep where only salt is safe
& with me & the Pacific’s Queen
cold, aground; a bloodied bitch
with corroded bunks & a banshee
rattling chains & rehearsing solutes.
I guess… the past has passion; what luck
these men haunt place of importance
these places that only know death.
These lucky ensigns—so many
aren’t graced with such a grave—Battle stations!