brine

i have always desperately tried to explain how i feel in an economy of words, the same vocabulary nailed out over and over in a ship devoid of life, floating on her sea of sand. you are the masthead, and i am the captain except the captain is drunk and fallen and directs the sails in a manner not only completely without of logic but within the realm of self-destruction. poor little merman, do you not like the ride, the saddle of the open waves crashing like grohlian drums? why then you chose the wrong occupation, your blonde hair is limp like the semen-saturated weeds of an abandoned carpark. i'm sorry for offending your mother, she never did sign that consent form did she. you merely forged it and ahead, thinking of bounty and lust and time and the falling of rain being romantic as it is for pirates. i may be a fool but at least i follow the laws of foolishness. you, on the other hand, did not know the course we charted but inside fell prey to the ravaging of a hundred sailors, equally misguided and anguished with loneliness. the disconnect from bodies can be fatal. they may make us grope at our own soul furtively, in utter despair and the orgasm's whisper-scream is the yowl of want.

you strike a mutiny at my heart but you can't abandon what is already dead. the girl said, when the old lady mentioned, "you can't kill what's half dead", "yes, you can. because you're half alive". i can't, i can't let the troops rebel. it will not be permitted in this fascist arena. burn it all down. don't let any of them live. because they co-opt the avant-garde, the raze our temples to the ground in their elaborate displays of masturbation. you feel like the sunset in my mouth, bad for me but so pretty although in this climate i feel nothing but cold, biting and bitter, eating away at my pretty face, my lithe body, that pliant waist that you love to swing into your hipbones again and again. if only you could see that ultimately, my scorn is despair and my despair, scorn. there are dictionaries for these things, but you don't read. you don't believe in it. all you think is, stare at the sun and it will remain there. night has fallen but you're already asleep and so you don't believe night exists. well i have something to tell you. but it's not in words. it's written on the inside of my belly. i guess you'll have to cut it up to read the entire works of shakespeare written upon mine spleen. dearest darling, you don't understand and i don't mind. surely, that is the comi-tragedy of the century. our love affairs. they don't cross each other, although we could sink low enough to make sure they did. i kissed your boy love and it wasn't as delicious as ariel's lunch i can tell you that. but i wonder how it felt when you lay together and the memory of my body disappeared like the day was swallowed by swollen clouds and whispery cobblestoned air.

looking at the stars in this broken town, it feels so familiar i cannot tell you. and that makes me cry for all that we have lost, together and alone.