I’m jetsam delighted—
pitching ass hull, crew shitting
off port bow, scrubbing navel deck.
The Saltire strung up
woman vesicle—
white-tipped waters,
a passive Union Jack.
Tidal abjection pooling
by a knee—
I am the vessel of this voyage.
Mammary stern-black,
fetid behemoth, aweless.
In bird’s nest belfries
Monocle-Eye says
dawn’s sky is red—
the great white whale is dead.
Climbing down the rigging post-sublime,
post-Kubla Khan,
post-opium, and even
post-dreams.
But goodness still happens on deck—
We look at stars, we talk, we make fires
and have willful sex, all of us
communing as gods.
And beyond constellations,
we speak of cosmology and
the movement of infinite strings.
The Dutchmen’s keen-eye machine
says straight on ‘til morning, says to die
would be awfully big so close to shore.
Death is the only adventure, gears
stuck and dust from the mainland besides,
the Promethean flame dies,
dies.
So a half moon whore. Copulates
nautically. Goes down pridefully
and graceless in all waters hailing
from the sea. We feel ourselves
in space between our shores.
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