Tuesday, August 3, 2010


How will I know the brow, the intention of my future loves?


Those lovely villains?

How will I know them as dupers?

How will I know them as friends?

For, I do portend, I won’t catch their sardonic gazes from behind.

No, nor will I sense their mischievous whims when they are slyly peering without my knowledge,

Their eyes full of lust and malice, eavesdropping on my movements from a perch over my bare shoulder.

How will I know him?

You know.

The one, who will, much to my chagrin –be the dupe of me,

Without compunction, turn me into an oyster?

A coward, a childlike thing -The proverbial scorned woman?

How will I know him?

Will he be fingerless? Perhaps have a rare disease?

Scurvy, like a pirate, deprived of vitamin C?

If he cannot have a care of himself –he’ll none of me.


And here’s open black and blue for you

In truth, I’ve never seen so many fingers a hand

A hand that loved me.

How many times have I been here to sail?

Now matter how many times I do it, I’m always, always sick at sea

Tallow and yellow bile

Who is it?

Who will put that spoke in my wheel

And fucking navigate this condemned vessel?

A fingerless hand,

A man who has no love for seashells.

But a desire for wanton oyster meat

A passing but tasty treat

He will need sharp teeth if he wants to crack open this shell

-if he wants this flesh.

-That sort of thing.

If that is indeed his thing.

What am I doing here?

What are you doing here

with me?

Somewhere lost at sea.

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