~)~)~)~)~)~)~)

Inwardly sordid nights, pre-war child,
one clings to the Vivaldi on stereo
to add some uplift to all the drowning;
eel-chains, white tusks of rapid water,
most imagined, seagulls neatly on a series
of rocks, necks gulping the last
fuming embers find somebody's script
in the whole reimagined twilight
(somebody slays in a brothel) the underbelly sings
in a pantsuit, in an oily harbor,
a collapse on the foodstuff
the ancient swimmers, guide to me
the works of fallen submarines, let me
into the quadrangle
for a holo-lit supper, a renaissance
in shades on shades of weaponry.