Circle-jerks. The Grampus toss of the sea. The creak and shrike of fear without end. Cotted below decks, tin-canned and man-coddled, down in the fulsome black, they like to imagine us alone in Nantucket .
alone in Nantucket
waiting, grey, on the hissing strand
streaked and stained in the salt dunes
counting the days in crusted corset straps
alone
as the sea. Tumbling spume. Because our bodies are the fucking waves to them
as the whale. Dick deep in blubber, howling at the void
alone as the sea as the whale as
Much worse as better. With their rum legs and their best, fucking hat. With some vast Spermaceti bubbling in the vats and the gulls and the gannets and the gulls all of a reeling at the flayed skin. The shanty clink of the victory shift. Blubber banked. On with conquest. At these times they like to imagine us at one in Nantucket .
at one in Nantucket
a coven of pins and purses
dripping our candle fingered titties with lamp oil
do-do-doing dildo-do-do saucery, firing our cunts with silver
at one
as the sea. Tumbling, filthy, foaming, frothy, frotting spume. Because our fucking bodies are the waves to them
as the whale. Howling at the blubber. Blubbing. Dick deep in the void
at one as the sea as the whale as
Their life of bellows and rot and hot, wet waste. The instruments of natural philosophy, of heroic increments. The needle and the horizon. Hooks and harpoons to stitch the drift. Endless frittering card games. The brine swill of mutiny sluicing the bunks.
At one alone.
No wonder they get it so wrong.
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