When the promising young lovers of all yesterday’s maybes consummated their nuptials and headed out for the high seas where impressive scenes appear in great shimmering heaves, suspended maybes from Hades set about their curative maiming; it’s hardly worth explaining and we better not hear you complaining.
The Freudian asks Captain Ahab what he uses, misuses, or misappropriates as supplemental fetish object for the Great White Whale, which can be neither captured nor killed nor held at a close remove; Ahab carries around and clutches a pearly pair of silk knickers, and here’s the kicker: nobody knows if he’s the catcher or the pitcher.
My anaconda don’t want none of that Tijuana sun, li’l miss cinnamon, Jesus H. Sundowner Christ, blue of noon in purple pantaloons with pop gun, a lackey pirate passing as a stowaway migrant, then back in windy Winnipeg where I pay for sex and listen to the wind howl and to the creak of all the myriad hotel bits with celestial elements admixed—the pure open market of aether—
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