We woke to a heavy down pour. Dehydrated, mad with love. She shifted on to her side and the boat rocked.
I love the sound of rain.
Me too. She said. It reminds me of Jenny.
We lay there in the darkness and traced the features of her memory with my finger, down her cheek and over her lips. But she was stuffed with Forever and Forever love to tell lies.
Im thirsty. She said.
Its the wine. I tell her. It pulls from the body, the Waters and leaves, Iron. Girders too.
Im so thirsty I could drink your spit.
I tell her Im all out and she says lets drink the rain. So we do. We stuck our heads out from under the tarp, turned our faces to the Plum God and opened our mouths.
We rested our heads on the bow and waited. It was a heavy rain. But still a long process, maybe two hours or more. Eventually the girders began to dissipate with the pluvial sating and we turned our rain soaked faces and kissed.
How do you see out of those?
I dont. She said. I need windshield wipers. And giggled. I took her glasses off.
Dont drop em.
I wont.
Use your shirt.
The rain began to subside and we sat up loosening the tarp. I could see Lily squinting and gave her back her glasses. She was eyeing the boats. I knew instinctively her thoughts and tried to pull her back.
That was a fucked up suicide. I said.
Anyone dumb enough jump off a building that low deserves pain. She said.
Maybe he was pushed.
Maybe.
Nations of constellations made up of stern consternation train through what seem like constant hours of rain. These crystalized structures of hoarfrost and hope (Iron) which I have already mentioned in its many forms; rust and bent bicycle wheels, cogs and gears of a machine that allow you to fly by peddling at conflagration percentages, nestled into my ear with maybe. A certain factor of blush level causes the face to eat itself. A phenomena called Pottering, when a thought lodges into a synaptic cul de sac causing other entities to trip in a train wreck fashion during such moments as the fore mention stellar configuration of Iron in the rain. (Pottering can also be a wrong gesture or a prayer uttered in the wrong context, also called a fart in church, in which case you sit in your own pew.) What Lily meant was maybe he wasnt. Maybe he thought he could fly. Lily had no patience or room for stupidity. No matter how poetic the gesture. And yet the thought came to her that maybe he did, if only for a brief moment live the dream of Icarus. But maybe this is me lying next to the only woman Ill ever love, betraying myself. My face eating itself. I am reading into it. This constellation, like a man peeling an orange while sitting on a park bench, drops the peels between his feet leaving droppings of another nature. Orange and white. Two colors more than we had before. In the darkness we are energies to each other. A couple of sounds. Two ideas in the air. pellucid constellated ideation and eventually: crystallizing nations. But we are poems unfinished. It is our duty to resist. Still young. It is our hollowness that defines us. The bird above us feeds us white light. We are two black holes where Angels come to return, lie down and die. I am hot.
Lets get rid of this fucking tarp, she said. And we do tossing our house into the water.
Hoping to become what I am not, I say, lets steal a boat and get the fuck out of here. Pirates dont steal boats, she says. They steal freedom. She then stuck her finger into my mouth and began to rub my gums. Her eyes looking for something in mine. Some kind of answer. I began to suck and she smiled, slowly pulling it out, leaning in closer to whisper into my ear. Its not even stealing, as Freedom can not be stolen, we merely borrow and commandeer it. If you can find it you can have it back and realize: You had it all along. Or maybe you didnt. She then stuck her spit soaked finger into my ear.
Bitch.
Wet Willie made her giggle the way she did when we were kids. You wanna go see if the corps is still there?
Okay.
For a Pirate, Lily has always been an odd one. She preferred, tug boats, barges and house boats over others. Even sail boats. Inlets and bays to oceans and seas. The idea being that freedom was nothing without constraints and a hacksaw. With regards to Pirates, the others she would say are prisoners of freedom. Out there in the great blue youre bound by space but in here, pointing to her heart, and here, to her head, you invent it. Come to know, what it means to be a Pirate. Your mother was wrong. She said. True Pirates have no need for money. People call us thieves only because they believe in it. They call us killers because they think their lives are worth something. That death wasnt meant for them. But who are they fooling?
You might wonder what it means to be a disciple of Poseidon especially when born of Demetre and Dionysus. She and me, rooted in earth yet bound to the sea and all along the the bird, green with envy, feeding us white light.
Flower kicker burn in hell. Kicker of flowers.
Why must congregations of assholes congregate like frost around me. What is that called: The verb that describes the creation of frost and how it forms? Crystallization.
But then: Flower picker! Dandelion blower. I too wish for your wish to come true. even if is does concern my demise.
Urine fills the basin. Time calls.
I love the sound of rain.
Me too. She said. It reminds me of Jenny.
We lay there in the darkness and traced the features of her memory with my finger, down her cheek and over her lips. But she was stuffed with Forever and Forever love to tell lies.
Im thirsty. She said.
Its the wine. I tell her. It pulls from the body, the Waters and leaves, Iron. Girders too.
Im so thirsty I could drink your spit.
I tell her Im all out and she says lets drink the rain. So we do. We stuck our heads out from under the tarp, turned our faces to the Plum God and opened our mouths.
We rested our heads on the bow and waited. It was a heavy rain. But still a long process, maybe two hours or more. Eventually the girders began to dissipate with the pluvial sating and we turned our rain soaked faces and kissed.
How do you see out of those?
I dont. She said. I need windshield wipers. And giggled. I took her glasses off.
Dont drop em.
I wont.
Use your shirt.
The rain began to subside and we sat up loosening the tarp. I could see Lily squinting and gave her back her glasses. She was eyeing the boats. I knew instinctively her thoughts and tried to pull her back.
That was a fucked up suicide. I said.
Anyone dumb enough jump off a building that low deserves pain. She said.
Maybe he was pushed.
Maybe.
Nations of constellations made up of stern consternation train through what seem like constant hours of rain. These crystalized structures of hoarfrost and hope (Iron) which I have already mentioned in its many forms; rust and bent bicycle wheels, cogs and gears of a machine that allow you to fly by peddling at conflagration percentages, nestled into my ear with maybe. A certain factor of blush level causes the face to eat itself. A phenomena called Pottering, when a thought lodges into a synaptic cul de sac causing other entities to trip in a train wreck fashion during such moments as the fore mention stellar configuration of Iron in the rain. (Pottering can also be a wrong gesture or a prayer uttered in the wrong context, also called a fart in church, in which case you sit in your own pew.) What Lily meant was maybe he wasnt. Maybe he thought he could fly. Lily had no patience or room for stupidity. No matter how poetic the gesture. And yet the thought came to her that maybe he did, if only for a brief moment live the dream of Icarus. But maybe this is me lying next to the only woman Ill ever love, betraying myself. My face eating itself. I am reading into it. This constellation, like a man peeling an orange while sitting on a park bench, drops the peels between his feet leaving droppings of another nature. Orange and white. Two colors more than we had before. In the darkness we are energies to each other. A couple of sounds. Two ideas in the air. pellucid constellated ideation and eventually: crystallizing nations. But we are poems unfinished. It is our duty to resist. Still young. It is our hollowness that defines us. The bird above us feeds us white light. We are two black holes where Angels come to return, lie down and die. I am hot.
Lets get rid of this fucking tarp, she said. And we do tossing our house into the water.
Hoping to become what I am not, I say, lets steal a boat and get the fuck out of here. Pirates dont steal boats, she says. They steal freedom. She then stuck her finger into my mouth and began to rub my gums. Her eyes looking for something in mine. Some kind of answer. I began to suck and she smiled, slowly pulling it out, leaning in closer to whisper into my ear. Its not even stealing, as Freedom can not be stolen, we merely borrow and commandeer it. If you can find it you can have it back and realize: You had it all along. Or maybe you didnt. She then stuck her spit soaked finger into my ear.
Bitch.
Wet Willie made her giggle the way she did when we were kids. You wanna go see if the corps is still there?
Okay.
For a Pirate, Lily has always been an odd one. She preferred, tug boats, barges and house boats over others. Even sail boats. Inlets and bays to oceans and seas. The idea being that freedom was nothing without constraints and a hacksaw. With regards to Pirates, the others she would say are prisoners of freedom. Out there in the great blue youre bound by space but in here, pointing to her heart, and here, to her head, you invent it. Come to know, what it means to be a Pirate. Your mother was wrong. She said. True Pirates have no need for money. People call us thieves only because they believe in it. They call us killers because they think their lives are worth something. That death wasnt meant for them. But who are they fooling?
You might wonder what it means to be a disciple of Poseidon especially when born of Demetre and Dionysus. She and me, rooted in earth yet bound to the sea and all along the the bird, green with envy, feeding us white light.
Flower kicker burn in hell. Kicker of flowers.
Why must congregations of assholes congregate like frost around me. What is that called: The verb that describes the creation of frost and how it forms? Crystallization.
But then: Flower picker! Dandelion blower. I too wish for your wish to come true. even if is does concern my demise.
Urine fills the basin. Time calls.