172. victor, tidings, tremendously pleased

“my friend, you are crazy, i’m sorry i saved you,
or stole you, i guess, the ocean away from,”
melanie screamed while hailstones round screamed
jaw-droppers, jellybeans, ancient, to eat

is not recommended, they’re forty years past it,
the box that they’re kept in, collapsed, corrugated,
floated on past the rudderless raft,
and melanie clung on, the coast was abaft

“alast mateys, ho!” the crab said, although
the wind he had worked up muffled it, low,
“lie down the hatches, quick now the rats” is,
i don’t know what, he’s completely gone past it

pulling on strings (how’d he set up this thing?),
an organ, almost, machinating,
the bloomers have bloomed, puffed out into,
bright red and yellow, a flag he now flew

a crab painted on it, it wasn’t well done, but
what’d you expect from an insectivore almost,
they’re not good at math, and drawing, and maps,
and this one is certainly a psychopath

melanie knew she had to subdue
abe lincoln quickly before he could lose
control of the strings, there’s maybe fifteen,
and send the whole house down into the drink

between the tall waves that the halogen made
she caught the tail end of an old garden rake,
most of the spokes, whatever, the forks
were missing, but maybe with one it would work

the whirlpool was set up with crab down within it,
the vortex, i guess, is what the nerds call it — 
from there he could see the whole, his machine
and tug on one (or five) of the strings

melanie paddled (the rake, poorly, acted)
into the stone of the whirlpool transplanted,
and once she was circling, death almost certain,
each string was looped on the fork, and then jerking
(cont.)