man on board
17 / 76 / 86 These suns at south, a red grade, groomed to tracking and setting; gripped by uproot and the shadowed leanings which we have come to know as a length; we can see their repeat as comforting and restful in their way. These winds: the troupe of our drift inwards through the waves. Snaking the tales which surround wooden figures that were bore to a protective stance, we set chase along her hips, making solid the features of carved men. Their necks reaching up, worn hard to a loose fit of skin, and chipping off onto the large shoulder block, which stood firm below their gaze. The passage, turned out, to become an opening. Red as a beat down sun.
28 / 65 / 90
We met a pathway, as though dressed from stone to stone. Peril for each, as triumph takes you in. Man is suffered changes on the open sea, his thrill to sail with the lead rebellion at the close of seas behind him. Projected out from the fattened stench of chatter and tool spark, thrown like a man’s hand to his sword, we fell into line, sharp and reckless with tune. Rhythm works the song in its mind. With only the back and forth, were not we also to keep within its to and fro. At parade, our course was checked and if not yet, then it was chosen. It is a must that we begin at a fixed position, irrespective of the compromise to the navigator up top.
27 / 29 / 19
Safe from the hostile draw, here in the mess, an oyster and clam supper feeds us well. We have revelled in the tractions of a breasted haven, rich as no drive we could ever know. Given to its eye and the forms upon each travelling prairie; we have looked out
across her bottom as though yarn to a boulder’s dredge. To a man, lifting up each with the powders of a keg gun. Given also to take on sleep. As days and water pass, a man is passed through water like his ship, through the eye of one’s needle, pointed into the ocean’s mouth-well. In sleep we would likely sink.
83 / 26 / 46
In the cooler mornings, the blue of black will charge us on to take the next sleep into any one man’s ghost succession. We have of course found all of the ragged streaks that the sailor will. They channel in as the mischievous, and present themselves on board as the image of a palatial rogue. I know it incredible, yet we have all taken as food the thoughts of what might be seen. In practice it may kill. It is true that a man in such conditions is little more than rage, and so we are each prone to time in the dark hole, were we can allow for the sucking motion of the seas to do their job. Holding the earth and water to an impermeable seabed.
73 / 27 / 28
At times even when all else may appear to have calmed the spirit, we could be overtaken by the throes as they are left to prowl. No sleep, only to rise early as the light, where it floods in, touching the depths of even the darkest holes. The ocean unrolls, to be assessed for damages that we might have shared in the thrashes and abuse, to which we owe our manhood. Tender as would be the meat on a hook.
63 / 38 / 03
Some days its more difficult to keep going than it is to stop. We have sailed on through the worst of the weather. This is the lift that we have needed. It is only right that the shore show herself soon, the men make so much of what she will likely offer that it is abundantly clear that she may at first disappoint. There is undoubtedly some very real confusion on board, but I would say that there has been some battles that we have not yet fully rode. I fear the safety of the younger ones; health is on their side but it’s true also that the rocks have taken their momentum and given them instead a barrage to stand against. I have renewed hope however that the morale is closer than it has been for some time and this is perhaps better than the wind or waves. If it were true, we would seek to propel all of the gods in our favour.