It is time.
raise the colors
hoist the sheet
undulating in the balmy heat
some black reticulating nightmare
flickering in moonlight —
the night watch at the helm
in darkness, a caricature
as a kind of truth made up of lies
a fabrication of this and other realities.
Where fantasy is all I know
As a vortex that closes around some unspecified point
Where fractions of the whole still won’t add up
as if shaping memory into an ideal
becoming a beautiful lie.
In a Profiteering off of experience
No. I don’t care—
I’m done talking with their Capitan
Mate.
Blow that ship apart.
Burn that bridge.
Kill all but their carpenters.
We are the maelstrom
Of petrels at sea
Harping down on one tender note
ribshots until they can’t stand.
take their face.
Their water
their wealth.
their blood.
& their shame.
it's ours.
their wealth.
their blood.
& their shame.
it's ours.
My days have devolved into rendering flesh
Where steel against bone,
and steel against steel
coin against counter
plastic against magnet
I sail.
Harder.
Harder than before.
With the brutality of impatience
A grinding millstone
To all of the human forms
That I leave behind
Sheathing my piece
To a wake of chaos.
Familiar, like a voyage I have made before.
Where I wish to abstract myself
From memories past
By relegating them to some kind of dream.
a delusion that has become plunder
opportunistic to the last
Like a rising sun over and endless ocean
wind to the sails
move us forward through time.
Beyond the carnage
of success and failure
we sail.
