Galician oak keels stretch their ribs on Atlantic swells, Oceanus Procellarum. An ancient oak keel stretches its ribs on Atlantic swells. Five centuries ago as it is today. Three vessels, three stowaways, the only adventurers left in this slightly known universe. An ancient oak prow dives over the whitewater into the pit of a vigorous wave.
This is a postcard from the cheap picture shop of childhood memories.
“Wish you were here!”
Mare Nectaris. Sperm, puddles ponds and brooks of sperm. The rivulets, the streams, the sweat, The Siren, the tide turns, the sperm the sea the sperm waves and the sperm whales sing to each other. Sperm, a drop dissolves in the ocean. Mare Nectaris. Sperm glistens in the rise and fall, cooling on your chest and breasts.
An ancient oak prow dives into the trough of a vigorous wave. The Galician pine mast creeks the cleats stretch drenched knots shriek tighter for me, for The Pretty Girl, and, of course, for Alba who is Dawn.
Ultramarine blue, I washed my face in the spaces between their legs, for there it smells of home, it smells of a safe haven from a pristine world. It smells human. The perfume of humanity. It smells of guilt for life and I could live for a hundred thousand years and I would still be yearning for it, for my Mare Vaporum. Yearning for guilt. But I felt no guilt way back then and I feel no guilt now and I shall feel no guilt. Kiss it! Pleasure never melts away to the heat of my tongue. It is I who dissolve, tongue in the heat of the meat. I kissed the creases out of your lips and your orgasms were bolts of sapphire blue.
“Blue?” Alba mouthed in an abstracted, detached sort of way. “Blue?” mirrored The Pretty Girl, looking absentmindedly through the both of us, “Green, emerald green....perhaps....”
Sapphire blue my sequence you embrace as emerald green
Heed the difference little mind
The sapphire blue light bathes you perfect
caresses our languid dawning bedroom scene
Words rudely commandeer your splendour
demand of me a scribe to find
A hunched and aged scrivener generously given
the perfection of the image is forever riven
I kissed your lips again and they said,
“Hello Peter! Hello Pretty Girl!”
An ancient oak keel stretches its ribs on Atlantic swells. An ancient oak prow dives into the trough of a vigorous wave. The Galician pine mast creeks, rigging, the cleats stretch drenched knots shriek.
Dawn. Dawn, who, of course, is Alba, Lacus Somniorum, turquoise blue, cerulean, cobalt blue bolts of sapphire blue. Ultramarine blue. Navy blue, The Black Sea, The Red Sea, The Dead Sea. I bathe my face in those places between your legs. The old cold sea. The hot roiling sea. I am down and it is so dark, up, foresail shredded and brilliant light whitewater and down and suffocating, drowning hot and sweaty with hauling on the capstan, winding in your nerves, giving it my all, and that, of course is when all the typical old, previously mentioned, clichés surface.
Freud was a fraud.
“Mother?”
Peter, Bug Eyed Peter, is not working for penetration.
Mare Crisium, a bolt of sapphire blue. Mare Serenitatis, Mare Nostrum.
