Future Deleted Experiment of the Present # 12

“Oh, Tywyll Mor-Leidr; Or, A Song For Sea Thieves”

westward hair blows faded within rays hosting all who swim by morning sea, braided waves float by any boat prepared for sailor’s boasts indeed

broken shades of wooden bed displayed a league beneath

judgement from water’s weakest words

oh my mother, sweet Preseli!

alleged upon ledge atop bleakest terms

above erosion of millennia fingers bleed to delay relief

as captian’s wheel known to her but once another’s flank, in debt sunrise we climb betrayed, like pirate’s fog we walk the plank,

for you I will belay

sun red bodies exposed soft and sleek, strange sculptures, strong eyes prepares distance in mouths so meek

yet singing tears an instance of gods terse form, laws obeyed by the lies of Orion

rhine romantics know no ruin nor lines centered within sweet wine and thunder

storm’s upon the strength of shorelines astutely restrained by horizon

privateer, publicly chosen you sting

yo ho all and yar disbar no tide against we!

as goats weep eerie immersion in tandem to two step by cello

the notes lay in page found faint in false ring

while waltzing abandoned whistle intent on the kracken’s feast, my emaciated bellow!

toast thy ghosts the riotous fast so boast past roasts reversal ye

lost, royal creatures of older wars loyal like ol Bartholomew and me

rain soaked upon reign provoked to curse gods, amen!, and men who don’t curse

but not beasts who be better than both creators and that which never needs nature except ones you inspire fear among and maybe

something in between the dreams of all of thee lost in me, desperate cannons surround ships departing like devils for all salt to sea

lacking movement without the insurance found intact within instinct

differing grain, gritty and fed on giddy idiots of fleshy towns and cities lose enclave grace from encounters in caves of feral things

at Cal-Hul our fleet must flee, to the hull at Castlemartin

four thousand years of forest our fishguard departed

synapses surrounded by white squirrels situate their station of sowed reaping

for cerebral gatherings garner delicate discussions on cold weather sleeping

heaven nor hell provide us any ladder

jump off or fight on, our enemy of philosophy dispels right or wrong

lovely creatures dry even in rain always choose the latter

those who don’t, fall below, mother Preseli’s scree in splatter