Darling, It's Better Where It's Wetter in Spin The Black Circle

I’m a retiring vessel carrying memories, hosting them, nurturing them and letting them grow into something more. The decks are filled with glory days as the creaks and the groans from the ocean lap one sided victories, attempting to steer its course. I host the waves as well. I welcome them, watch them build and crest and crash. I host them the way a gentlemen would. I host them and they are parasites, spurning vile bodies with ever sickening speed. Much like the boat, the only growth inside is further dilapidation.

There was a ballroom where we fell in love and danced and kissed on the staircase. There is the galley, tucked deep in there, where meals were shared, created and plated. Of course, the cabins, where we tried our best to create life without planting the seeds, enjoying our dry harvests. Of course, the adventure deck carried our flights of fancy. The ship is a head full of ghosts, haunted by terrifying lows, dizzying heights, and insides like cream. It spends its last days in agony, tired and worn, craving a boneyard, living in its over-shadowing grandeur.

The question begs should the bateau be retired? How would it retire? Decently, or is it like a dog, gleefully following its master behind the house only to be put down, eyes filled with love until the very end?

I sail these memories across these seas. “One last time,” I say. “The captain must go down with his ship,” I say. Yet I wear a life vest. Pushing adrift, headlong into mounting waves, I attempt to steer when it dawns on me that I am not the boat. The boat is a representation. The boat is an ideal.

No I am not the boat.
There are no great adventures. There are no parties.

I am the Kraken, and I am despoliation, the chaos of the deep taking hopes and harvesting dreams into a watery grave.

Last updated September 08, 2019