Monday, December 3, 2012

Main Mast

Sparingly, to make it last, he packed a few
leaves of good bottom-land tobacco into his old,
but still favorite, pipe.
It was curved, much like space-time,
a continuum of briar that
was as smooth and warm to the touch
as a woman's bottom.

He pointed the pipe towards the main mast
and barked out breath-seen orders in the cold.
The crew, fresh from the
breakfast of the last few eggs and some tripe,
turned to and, as they hauled away, sang an old
sea-rhyme.  They passed an old submerged wreck
that had long ago given up its dead.
The salt lay thick on the deck
like a white and powdery mat
and they had to scrub it so much that
their hands and knees
were as raw and red
as a woman's freshly-spanked bottom.

The tall ship, now under full sail,
headed swiftly downwind
away from the threatening gale,
as far away as the following seas could send,
out towards the great sea current
where they hoped to sight many a whale.
Then their coffers would be full of fat
they had rendered from the flesh they had rent.
As full as a fat woman's bottom.

Under the freedom of the seas
and the wide-open, all-blue skies
the crew danced a jig
to the tune of an old violin
under the sails they would soon rig.
Danced as the wind shifted to their lees
and hinted at the left-behind violence
of the weather which now sounded merely like the sighs
of a woman whose bottom had been carressed gently
with the anticipating intent of a storm rising,
coursing through her thighs.

As the smoke from his pipe shifted,
do did the winds and
therefore his orders.
Taking in sail, the ship
slowed as he steered her
just to starboard of a group
of islands known for their fishery.
There, on top of the main mast,
a lookout kept a sharp eye out
looking for land
and for whale-sign.
They would soon test this ship of pine
against the will of whales being hunted.
Hunted until they died in sad misery
as they jetted forth their last poor spout.
Tonight, the crew would dine on fish soup
and dream of port visits with
their pockets full of coin from the catch.
As full and round as a woman's bottom.

He marched towards the main mast,
a gold coin in one hand
and a top maul in the other.
He nailed the coin to the mast
shouting out his desires
for that which he most wanted to catch
as if each labored breath would be his last.
He inspired the sailors, each one as close as a brother,
with promises of visits to islands of sand
and holds filled up to their latch.
Sand as warm and soft and white
as a woman's bottom.

Yes, it was the white whale they sought!
Knowing the battles for him that had been fought
by other crews and ships now long dead.
They, though filled with dread,
were confident that they were somehow different.
That, this time, the whale
with wrinkled brow
and evil eye
would fall.
Fall to their harpoons
and spears.
To this, they raised their beers
and let out great cheers,
"Down with the white whale!  Death to the white whale!"

Little did they know then that it would be they who would fall,
fall to the bottom of the sea.

The bottom of the sea,
where many a sailor lay.
This crew would soon join them
in Davy Jones' locker,
they who now would pay
with their lives for
daring to let their ambitions soar
beyond what should ever be,
leaving behind many whaler-women's bottoms.

Their eyes would grow dim
and their limbs stiff
as the tales of the white whale would continue to spin
just as their once great ship did down the whale-driven whirlpool.
And the vengeance of all great fish
was wrought on men whose only wish
had once been to have a great catch
to take home to their wives.
But the pride of one man, a great fool,
brought an early end to their lives.

There at the bottom of the sea.

mindbringer, 2 December 2012