Come night, I count my bullets in peace. Five tall, porcelain-painted, pretty as crackledile teeth.
⸎
Crooked under that terrifically realistic harpoon hung in the pirate’s eye, I watch them down below still—my flock of fantastic idiots. Packing slowly, hurling what little provisions they can muster into polka-dotted hobo sacks they’ll soon cinch onto the ends of sticks. They’ll bump along over the horizon like rags of ghosts – shadows sewn into their skin sulking toward the swirling trash ocean. Grit-knuckled and gnarled, at least they’ll be safe from me then.
​
⸎
​
For all Peter’s faults, he can sense a bad apple. The vile worm wriggling, rotting inside its softening core.
​
⸎
​
They’ll last no longer than a day in the open scorch; this is an optimistic estimate.
​
But of course, it is still within my powers to spare them and this crosses my mind more
than once. (Five tall, porcelain-painted, pretty as crackledile teeth…) I watch dazed birds – or maybe they’re bats and I could never tell the difference? – pirouetting like little cocktail umbrellas over the greased night’s canvas.
​
I have decided I have no idea what mercy is, and even if I did I’m not worthy of doling it
out. So I’ll do nothing. Simply, nothing. What a relief—to be unmoored from fate like that. A passive observer, no more, no less.
​
It’s easier that way; I’m starting to believe the trick is to let things go on by and not try to catch them at all. Call me driftwood. Watch me float.
Come night, I count my bullets in peace. Five tall, porcelain-painted, pretty as crackledile teeth.
⸎
Crooked under that terrifically realistic harpoon hung in the pirate’s eye, I watch them down below still—my flock of fantastic idiots. Packing slowly, hurling what little provisions they can muster into polka-dotted hobo sacks they’ll soon cinch onto the ends of sticks. They’ll bump along over the horizon like rags of ghosts – shadows sewn into their skin sulking toward the swirling trash ocean. Grit-knuckled and gnarled, at least they’ll be safe from me then.
​
⸎
​
For all Peter’s faults, he can sense a bad apple. The vile worm wriggling, rotting inside its softening core.
​
⸎
​
They’ll last no longer than a day in the open scorch; this is an optimistic estimate.
​
But of course, it is still within my powers to spare them and this crosses my mind more
than once. (Five tall, porcelain-painted, pretty as crackledile teeth…) I watch dazed birds – or maybe they’re bats and I could never tell the difference? – pirouetting like little cocktail umbrellas over the greased night’s canvas.
​
I have decided I have no idea what mercy is, and even if I did I’m not worthy of doling it
out. So I’ll do nothing. Simply, nothing. What a relief—to be unmoored from fate like that. A passive observer, no more, no less.
​
It’s easier that way; I’m starting to believe the trick is to let things go on by and not try to catch them at all. Call me driftwood. Watch me float.
Come night, I count my bullets in peace. Five tall, porcelain-painted, pretty as crackledile teeth.
⸎
Crooked under that terrifically realistic harpoon hung in the pirate’s eye, I watch them down below still—my flock of fantastic idiots. Packing slowly, hurling what little provisions they can muster into polka-dotted hobo sacks they’ll soon cinch onto the ends of sticks. They’ll bump along over the horizon like rags of ghosts – shadows sewn into their skin sulking toward the swirling trash ocean. Grit-knuckled and gnarled, at least they’ll be safe from me then.
​
⸎
​
For all Peter’s faults, he can sense a bad apple. The vile worm wriggling, rotting inside its softening core.
​
⸎
​
They’ll last no longer than a day in the open scorch; this is an optimistic estimate.
​
But of course, it is still within my powers to spare them and this crosses my mind more
than once. (Five tall, porcelain-painted, pretty as crackledile teeth…) I watch dazed birds – or maybe they’re bats and I could never tell the difference? – pirouetting like little cocktail umbrellas over the greased night’s canvas.
​
I have decided I have no idea what mercy is, and even if I did I’m not worthy of doling it
out. So I’ll do nothing. Simply, nothing. What a relief—to be unmoored from fate like that. A passive observer, no more, no less.
​
It’s easier that way; I’m starting to believe the trick is to let things go on by and not try to catch them at all. Call me driftwood. Watch me float.