Anchor cleaning: orders of the day.
Not too windy to drift.
Up after dog watch thinking on the charts.
Took a row across the harbour.
Thought about the little snob I was; how I hated them,
not for what they were,
but what they had to become…
Oedipus was a rich kid, so was Little Hans.
Give them a chance not a choice, a chance to be like you, boss?
No thanks, I couldn’t handle it.
Not this way.
…away off down to the cabin is where I drift
to and thereafter, the galley for thick, honey porridge,
with rustic ripped banana hunks and chocolate in stick and heart form.
Feeling a queer unease I patient on the thick, night green socks, intake a Handel
organ frill, damn the rococo, and headaloft thinking gothic tea cozies, shaking violently with warps,
sucking crumbs of welshcake from the hidden gulleys and fold of my jowl, and making them into a workable lozenge for laters…
…the morning cheroot was a burden to me,
lugging it grotesquely bear-handed from room to room,
unable to trail it as before the phillipic spillage.
Bessie Smith delivers of her best…
let that be a lesson
To us All
After eating sliced processed hens breast bedded on little gem and smoked rashers we reconvene blemished by the common ingrate, geraniums in a strop of red tape and horsepiss…