The Sulking God's Tongue

The sulking God's tongue, a pink bed of sea-rock, 
Masts flesh prayers delighting bitterness to taste.
Morgues of wind drape white knuckles parching the dock, 
Sands and dust spit from ribbed pillars of paste
Hooking thumps of fizzy weeds and foam green layers
Hardening the basin's excess bone, dissolving ice, 
Returning you to the coast's edge of shelled-mirrors 
Where you witness in a rhythm of terrific glimmers, 
Observing in silence, a vacancy of vice, 
A circular stream of rock gathering prayers. 

The sulking God's tongue is a sponge of carbon 
Revolving in infantile devotions of both man and fish.
Beyond the coast where sea-gulls throat's are tied
To the tunings of an ever-crescendoing Dawn
Where, awash with white cling films of tide
And shells dumbfounded, I pace in flights of knots and ties, 
Seeking the breath ascending in thoughts which submerge
Pores illuminating the cavities of shores, 
Winds litter a profuse of droplets to surge 
Cores of granite, inspecting and scabbing the coast's sores.

The sulking God's tongue is a platform for shadows, 
A bridge for the opal prune powdered by the Moon. 
When easy gems combust and shiver into buds 
An adult is painted, though the memory hallows; 
Hairy arches lengthen through amnesiac floods 
Returning or revelating as insects amongst grass, 
Lazily plated silver by the broken nightlight.
Dew is a sweep of sorrow crystallised to mass 
And the eternal riches in thought breathe to pass 
In the gravedigger's empty skull narrowing sight.