Playing in the peeling waves,
young knaves,
garlands from the maypole
rippling round their heads,
the freshest flowers of spring
bobbing up and down
in the icy sound’s bed.

Feet spread,
playing in the party waves
nobody behaves,
her titties tidal slaves,
a-frame crashers,
sets and heartbeats
pounding faster,
but for now, it’s playful
ankle slappers.

Playing in the racy waves
each man’s his own sloop,
buoyancy’s slaves,
groins in the greenroom
of heavy cries,
blissful ivory soup
of inner thighs.

Hoping humpback waves,
the paddlepuss afraid
of the messy stream,
backdoor bailing,
clucked, she ducked,
her foamy white
bottom cresting,
caught inside
a curling gaze.

A lull among heavy ones,
a deep pull
sucking dry
the shore’s mounds,
dirty dips come in rounds.

Over the falls she slips,
gives him a tug
in the middle of a nug,
he’s in love with
the wave’s pouty lips.

No clean swells today,
drop-in debris,
choppy surf worked hard
by the washing machine
of a slutty, slotted sea.

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This poem is written for the May 25th Twisted Tuesday Radio Show hosted by the Late Night Poets celebrating the artwork of Arnold Bocklin. This painting entitled, “Playing in the Waves.” Enjoy!