Shiptipped

In ship I tip

It's windy round the hull

The gulls are rather crafty 

To invent me at my best

Insisting I am one the pest

But shut their beaks

Shut their scrawk

Shut it

Shut

Maybe, I thought, the vacuum

Racks the stains the sticks inhumed

Into character remembered 

Into new perfume 

Here in ship I tip dismembered

Combobs distempered

And slewn about in twos

Molding obscene

As mold in a horror dream

That I myself have conjured

Tipping sick forever

Until someday that I remember

Where the days all drifted to

Where autonomy enters you