Untitled

It was never about the whale.

The desperation

hot and sick

boiling his bowels

This,

all of this

slipping in and out of panic,

white knuckles, clenched jaws,

gorge burning his throat

even the hate,

that great grey fog of the soul

myopic destroyer of the periphery

Focus without the benefit of depth

Stuck fast, barbs set,

hold

inexorable

Ahab thought it was about a whale.

A whale!

Too small, too insignificant a leviathan

This is the horror of the pen,

the nightmare of revision

Redefinition

This we,

the leaking ship

shored with the timber of narrative

Beset by crushing depths below and endless void above,

becalmed

buoyed only by the strength of the stories we tell ourselves,

what man wouldn’t hunt the beast that defies this paper illusion,

That mocks our tales of bravery

What man wouldn’t seek to destroy any monster that dares suggest we are not us?

Advertisements
Next Post
Leave a comment

3 Comments

  1. Nice to see some new stuff. Don’t understand it. Never have. But it’s cool anyways.

    Reply
  2. jlynngrrl

     /  December 11, 2016

    Damn. Color me impressed.

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: