Falsity of care
Seamen know ports, where old ships,
gather, upon completing a trip,
dim specked liquor bars, weathered
sea-men chew on tobacco sticks;
Strange women await, a prepaid love
reaches almost an expiration of this end,
every time, for every started crime,
and every pre adorned preserved dime.
Christened by nautilus. Whichever name
accustoms needs, ghostly mortised
new forms of every dusk, sea-men, turn-in
in blue coats, burnished bronze buttons.
They drink false-liquor. Not of a choice,
but of a rueful condemnation plea,
smoke; laughing as crying, a hoarse cackle,
a dormant envy of an abstract embrace.
Latent trust, and longing. No one links
so far, mud of a rain on the walk
Gimballs of compasses non-fixed, mental,
fake trust extorted traumas, extolled.
In a adjoining moment of grievance, all,
will talk about adventures, acquaint
of lands, of ghosts, an alliteration,
of lonely timed unfurled touches strange.
Better enter of never, invited in, by every
darkened touch. Controlled by need
for such, or trust. Never to attain. An even
vain of your soul to cry or explain.
Sea-men roll a hand made thick smoke,
large, like black-board white chalks
solely because the cigarettes remind them
of a alone blinking faraway lighthouse;
one buckled souls failed to pass. Every one
has a death toll to even trus, you see,
a soul of odd ports, in causes of failure
has an even just cause to a falsity of care,
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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