Hey Mr Beach Bum

you’re no fun Mr Beach Bum

with your sun bleached hair

you just don’t give a care

that you talk too loud

and your guitar sounds bad

you’re attention singing

a smokin’ and a drinkin’

years all floatin’ on by

like those jet ski tourists

creating havoc in their wakes

never stopping to wonder why

your washed up woman cries

and clings to your pot belly side

with her barnacled brown hide

all tattooed with mermaids and moons

stretched wide now she’s not so thin

and griddled with laughter lines

from your retold barfly tales

of drunken fights in Sloppy Joe’s

and rival Captain Tony’s Saloon

where Hemingway’s ghost haunts

your legendary watering holes.


each morning nightmares take you

they drag you under ever deeper

legs and arms can’t keep from tangling

in alligator swamp pools forever writhing

the mangrove roots like prison bars

in the sleeping bellies of half wrecked stars

clam baked with chowdered hulls

briny waters lap around your skull

reminders of when as a tear filled child

you laid rigid with anticipated fear

at the sound of doors opening and closing

your castaway father down the hall cursing

his alcohol sweat drenched clothes rank

you moaned with a silent rising tide of panic

dry words unable to escape your gaping mouth

waiting for the inevitable beating hands

that sometimes came in manic waves

never knowing when or why or what

or whether you would ever witness

the passing madness fading

under a blood red orange sun rising.


brown pelican silhouettes circle

your good morning vultures that beckon

from the bottom of a broken brandy bottle

lost overboard and sand buried

amongst the





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