Amok Poem by Peter Jay Shippy

The village used a bank
of flat-screen monitors

as a sea wall. This may
explain why a sit-com

blushed the lower part
of her face yet cop-shows

bled across the eye-half.
At high-tide they played

antique chop-sockies.
I watched her watch, instead.

Her mug was disfigured
in consequence of laughing

or weeping, at not much.
Her hair was gassed to riot.

Her tongue chirred our air
to a sweet sweet butter.

So we supped above
As Black Cows Kiss

and water bussed home
all the dieshort night.