How will I know the brow, the intention of my future loves?
Enemies.
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.
Thankfully-
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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