Ghosts of the Pequod
Walking through neon-lit rain,
turning a corner;
cutting a deck of choices,
turned to stone,
crumbling in his hands,
teasing the soles of his blackened boots.
Turning a corner,
turning a card
that holds no surprises;
the sound of spades
(neon-lit)
hitting stone.
Sparks of night dust,
like babies in a garbage-can
or pink and cosy cradles,
die without regrets,
without a tale,
a thought of time or loss.
Turning a corner,
facing the ruins of a face:
some junkie
or some hooker
or Salvation Army grunt -
someone selling cheap surrender.
Clotho’s eyes,
holding the needle that prospers,
that promises dreams,
delivering lives.
Atropos’ knife (neon-lit)
flashes.
And Ishmael,
poor drowning Ishmael,
raises Abraham’s knife
and shouts or whispers
in the wreckage of night:
I’ve got a tale to tell,
I’ve got this tale to tell:
now listen!
Do you hear me?
I’ve got a tale to tell.
Can’t you fucking listen?!
I’ve got a tale to tell.