I can talk treks,
truth-tales twisting —
every word my wracking —
how I buckle underneath
these hours of fuckeries,
long dredging days —
grudged to the gall,
the stew of my guts —
tracking down plenty:
seats of sorrow-bound ships —
the roiling awful of waves,
where clutching night-watches
poured over me, catching
at dromund prow,
dashed smashed upon stone. (1–8a)

My feet were clapped in chills,
enwrapped in withering,
wound in frozen fetters,
where my sorrows sigh —
boiling in breast.
Heart-hunger sunders
souls of the sea-rutted (8b–12a)

What could the chads know,
to whom the finest fruits fall—
how I, yearning & yawping,
worrying across whole winters
and the icebox of oceans,
trackless tracks of the traceless,
am drained of kindred & kindness —
hung about with harrowing icicles?
Flurrying hail showers me. (12b–17)

What to hear out there?
Nothing — if not the thrumming sea,
rhythm of ice-blade waves.
Then & again singing of swans
cranks up their cheer — taking
gannet cry & curlew keen
for laughter among company —
seagulls regaling a hearty round of mead.
Buffets beat riff on cliffs of stone,
where ice-pinioned terns keep time
and eagles exult wet-winging above.
Without the shelter of kindred,
and having all this nothing,
why wouldn’t I send my spirit sailing? (18–26)

So few trust in their own,
keeping clutch on joys of life,
habituated to homes,
strangers to perilous paths,
prideful and wine-plush —
how weary I must withstand
so often upon the surf-roads.
Dusky shadows darken,
north-winds snowing,
banding the earth in frost.
Hail tumbles to the ground —
how can such cold seeds sprout? —
like the wonderings of my heart
come crashing down these days —
Should I test out the tidal deeps,
the dancing of salt waves? (27–35)

Yearnings of heart remind
at every mindful moment
the spirit is a sailor —
and so I must seek
homes of estrangement
far from this place. (36–38)

Therefore there is no one
across the whole earth
so mind-weening, so assured in assets,
or yare of youth, or fierce of feats,
or loyal to lords — that they
should not know the sorrow
of the salty passage ever & always —
that yet another lord may subject
them to whenever he likes. (39–43)

What are harp-thoughts to these?
Or ring-rooking? Or woman-playing?
Or any hopeful resort to this world?
Or anything else for that matter —
nothing —
except the ebb & flow:
yet it always aches inside
one who tempts the tides. (44–47)

Flowers flood from forest,
flocking down fortifications,
flickering across fields —
so this world flits faster.
All of it reminds the hurrying heart,
urging soul to sail along,
for that one fixing to ferry out
far-wards on flood-ways. (48–52)

The cuckoos say it too,
in longing tones,
summer’s ward sings,
strumming your pain,
bitterness in breast-box.
What would the mighty man know of it—
a guy fortunate always & again—
what those select few meet with,
ones who set themselves
to tracks of broadest desolation. (53–57)

Of course my selfness
would want to outventure now —
beyond the enclosure of chest,
my very core coursing with tides,
surpassing the broadness,
where whales tend their gardens,
at every corner of the globe. (58–61a)

Here it comes again,
one who flies alone,
gulling greed & gluttony—
goading unexpectedly
my solitude upon
slaughtering waves,
across surging surf. (61b–64a)

And so the joys of the lord
kindle me hotter
than a life of just the same,
deadening, all just a loan.
You can’t possibly believe
your power, your wealth, your world
will stand up tall — forever?
Every fucking time, always & again,
one of three outcomes
falls out to fuck things up
before you were supposed to die:
Fever or the fading,
or else some bladed malice
drags out the breath from
those fated on forwards. (64b–71)

Whatcha got left then? —
Best we have will only be
the regards of those rambling after,
high repute as we row away,
and so one ought to take pains
before one must away,
to unfold on this enfolding earth
one’s fierceness, one’s feats —
despite foes’ despite,
ever-opposed to devils.
Maybe then human sprouts
would laud them lofty
and the plaudits last
ever among the angels,
always & forever —
the pop & the profit
of extra-long existence,
joys among the majesties. (72–80a)

Those days go dusking:
pomposities of every earthly prince —
no more the kinglets or kaisers,
no more the gold-givers,
like there used to be.
My my — then those dudes
would grant out the greatest glories
and home them in highest honor. (80b–85)

Crapped flat these majesties,
their pleasures feathered on by.
The weaker hold the field
and flourish somehow —
flaunting it in fluttering.
The flowers have flopped out.
Earthly good elders, wizens,
just like all humanity
across this homely habitat.
The eldering erodes them,
grizzled-haired grieving,
perceiving his play-friend,
peer in peerage, plopped
right down into the cold cold ground. (86–93)

But neither will this meat-shirt
of yours, when the spirit
meanders off, mouth
upon the merriments,
nor tang with trouble,
nor lash about in limbs,
not even ponder in pith. (94–96)

Even though a brother
would bury his other
with treasures aplenty,
grave bestrewn with gold —
what he wants him to have —
yet how could that gold
succor a soul brimmed of sin
from the terror of god,
what he hoarded while hale. (97–102)

Fear of the one measuring
is plenty big — therefore
this realm will be tendered,
who tendered the ground untender,
far corners of the globe,
and the overarching stars. (103–105)

What fella doesn’t fear his lord—little or big—
will always be a jack-fool,
and demise will chop him down,
outta nowhere. Those who live in meek respect,
what wouldn’t they reap in the beyonds?
The measurer plants the heart in them,
because they credit its capacities.
A mensch stands their surpassing spirit,
beanpoles it to its root, stays certainworthy
to those around, keeps it respectable. (106–110)

Whatever person should
ought to clamber close
in calm constraint,
to whoever they cherish
or condemn to the core —
they may want them
charred crisp, be flushed
with flames, some frenemy, if you like —
yet see how it falls out,
that always wins, see?
And that measurer?
Mightier still, mightier
than whatever grudge
you harbor in heart. (111–116)

Sit down & think about it —
wherever that home draws us,
and imagine how we return there
and then actually do the work,
so that we are given the pass
into everlong entitlement,
where the days don’t quit
in the lord’s loving blaze,
jubilance in heaven’s dance. (117–122a)

The takeaway —
Give grace to that holy,
so he graces us back,
the owner of glory,
long-going lord,
for all time.




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