Watching a rerun of the movie favorite
Where a dejected naval would-be hero
Hangs himself in a unit of the aquamarine

“Hold, just grab the grass,” counseled my link
to the humanized, floricultured top,
when, on the incoming tide, the waves
tall and brown in a fog, basaltic

Falling to
his potting-mix-brown
avenue—

Of those who finally win notice,
of these artists it is said their early work 
is either purer, more astounding,

         Whatever is expressive 
about clumsiness (bad knees), 
        disproportion (potbelly, 

After a bad night,
Goya might have invented turkeys.

Almost swamped by ink,

 Stuff my eyes with clouds.
   Dangle tender mites above my lashes till
      the lids go lank

Here is the rock behind which she rose from the unpleasance of sea-foam.

“Just who did kill Dr. Brewer?” Nurse Kelly asks in the caf on break.

“I resent your asking.”

The devil, for one, is a philanthropist. 
He gave so much 
God told him to put on mittens.