Monday, December 6, 2010

Consider the Stream // of consciousness*

Way haul away, we're bound for better weather, to me
Way haul away, we'll haul away Joe

Nothing is ever free, ever bound outside of position, positionality. we are bound, then. bound and gagged and starting blind with bilge switch eyes and a hunger for a farther. I stood there on the decking and beggered for a birding, I stood there on the good ship and bound my feet for home. I should have known better, should have known they were to kill me. I should have known a better but at least I know it now.

A knife, the mate, he slipped me. A knife to cut my bindings. A knife, the mate, he slipped me, into my bed he came. A ship bound for freedom, a ship bound for glory. A ship they say was bound, but bound was how they held me.

A night then, a night, when given a beggers glass o vinegar, a slip a sip a glass and grasp at the cask a rum (salt pork and peter and with the glass and gasp, the rigging and rigged, I to the sea was to call my last breath and last home). They hauled and heaved and luck would turn the storm, a jonah a jones, and honing the blade, the knife the mate he slipped me I cut finally my bounds, my binding, the rock the millstone dragging me to the deeps the depth the darkness that calls me and Davy home. And swimming and smiling and breathing free at last but hardly and ever free I made for the open for the last for the depth and the deep and the sand and the silt and the land that any would call would call it land might it be land or die here in the struggle to swim this last and this last and the list and the once more inthe breach good sirs and one

a message, no bottle, never found.

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