The Galley

There's something similar but nothing new
no revolutions on this globe eternally spinning
row below in doldrum's plane the sound of drums inside your brain
and this dear nautical sorts and sports is the appearance of winning
paralyze exhaustion sweat and blood and salt— relief comes with the rain
—
do you have any meaning at all really, to us? we talk
about you endlessly speculate and cogitate and masturbate to your beautiful geometry
but you don't talk about us. not once. every word you sing is specific and could apply to
but you don't have a core no heart no seed no particle of soul in need within this display
a firework you sing... all surface and flame and light and heat and eye-void within
—
bubble film message in wind float
spiderling dangle from spinnerets
a galley's oars a covered wagon these eight paddled feet 
partitioned rigid organizes sectioned men compete
pull to insistent metronomic rhythm endless beats
forward fore word always forward ever horizon seek
beat our backs and flay our skin til we are blood and raw meat
braise our skull and broil our bones and floss your teeth with our tendons
We'll strain and pull until the last beat when your infinite repast is complete
...but do not fall asleep.