Sucker's Sea

Reverse my verses back into the handle of your sunshine yellow oh-so-mellow tea cup mug of pretty baby terrapins.
Seraphs dance on the rim and ask questions pertaining to words that I never heard.
Some strange ritualistic jargon encircles my cuticles, pushing them into my fingers towards the joint and crunching the bones in my hand until they form a tent,
Cuticles acting as ropes,
Bones as poles,
My skin the stretched fabric over a circus of slight discomfort, of distorted notes and screeching post modern masterpieces lost in their own reflected reflections.
It's brittle but strong and each elephant and lonely bystander may not exit without a bow and a curtsey
Which has become impossible amongst the layers of molasses, of lubricants and of used bus tickets which swim on the floor with the sewage of generated earrings clinging to lobes that no longer care and wish they would get gangrene and drop off,
Join the sucker's sea.
Each pair of shoes is held in place by a tiny emotion, suffocating quietly in the dark, viscous lotion that the skin yields to with no reluctance,
it folds in on itself with little more than a squeak of friction and the snigger of an old tramp, and the cough of his empty dog, and it dissolves- but not fully-
sections of skin can be found in this oversized puddle,
and lifted and tried on as hats and belts in high street stores, with custard yellow velvet ladies who coo like wood pigeons fucking violently on a thin white fence,
they'll tell you just how intriguing you look to their pin prick eyes.
It's all because prostitution is wrongly accused.
I mean do you really think the world would be a better place when we banned pleasure and suffocated our already sweating genitalia, turning it deep brown in rotting inadequacy and disuse, leaking steaming pale fluid that just screams for a glance of attention, of excess, of bravery of which I have found none-
ride under any dark belly bridge and I imagine I'll find true paradise on the tip of a hair follicle attached to some godless crackwhore, not some overrated god-searching junkie but a freak,
they can be on the underside of the tent.
Not scratching madly at the seams but opening their gaping, loose mouths that flap like patriot flags outside lying buildings, and sucking hard on the skin of the big top,
They'll make huge red welts that scream to the outside and signify that something, somehow, is living above the sucker's sea.