Waves and Smoke? Blimey

There was a bully; though that is only half of the story so I was filling it in
to try make it good which only
made me ill, and now critiqued. O today I am feeling it—

ash, smoke, dead wood from an old fire that just
wouldn’t get off the ground unless
there was other blood to be sucked; though I am braver, less cunning,

less concerned with it being
something thought over: the flow? It doesn’t deserve it—

my Angel Delight, that is. No I am not going back to the fire
to round the piece off. I don’t actually believe
in bullies, by the way,
there being more going on

than meets the eye but you can sense
nothing under the fire that cannot
really burn at all, like

something you try and encourage by blowing underneath
the sea level it balances on, while it floats

off on a current
called safety by itself yet I went back

to the fire above, didn’t I? I can’t keep up.
I can keep up! There’s nothing to keep up with? I swear I was blowing on this!

O I’m feeling it again today.