Blogarama

h. dagger's adventures at sea

Name:
Location: the waves, the ocean

Hoist the sails, raise yer bloody goblets, ahoy & onward me laddies!

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Dirty Mulebeard

Mulebeard you saint you I labored o'er a response of substantial form ere me blog engine deleted the whole damn tripe of it. Point was laddies, & here consolidated considerably, cast yer hope o'er the stern & ere long the basic fundamental form of well-being will catch the line. Bite off the cork laddies, but 'tween sips conjure yer battles & spoils & settle yer scores, for the battle wages on in spite of yer piteous leanings. Aye, uncork a fine African rum & nestle in the crowsnest & let ole rosy-fingered dawn tickle yer manbeard me laddies, & tell me life is bad. The life of the pirate is tough, true 'tis, to the bone, but as ole whiskey said 'twixt tirades on sexual duplicity & dips in the whale spout, tough tittie toenails. Indeed, so it is me laddies. The music plays on, & on we go to the seabed for a bevvy of mermaids with which to besmirch our sorrows! To the other side of the tack me laddies, to the crowsnest for a sip of golden ambrosia, aye! Afore this letter makes a preacher of me, afore the spirit touches me, aye, away & avast laddies!

The Crow's Nest & a Bottle of Rum

Ere long a man wonders at the aspect of sympathy & wherefrom it may come whisping along like a gale off shore or the flatulence of a petulant mermaid, aye. Not given long to such cause, Dirty Mulebeard coupled a comforting song with 'is old empathy, assuring old Dagger that a plunge into a whale's spout & the brisk touch of rosy-fingered dawn upon a manbeard at dusk is enough to plow us through our days. Indeed, a pirate oft lets 'is feeble perspective drop o'erboard & regains it somehow like a thick line cut in the wake, pulling along a shark carcass or mutineer. The point, laddies, is that rum, that sweet elixir, that guilded golden ambrosia, is no cure-all without a proper reconsideration. Take a sip, aye, but 'twixt sips think long & hard on yer battles & scars laddies, & then breathe in the salty musk & whalefog that surrounds ye, & cast yer good eye along the horizon fer a new battle. Wisk away the dew from yer manbeard & put on a dry cap laddies; the battle wages on. Mulebeard's got a good eye indeed, & one what'll remind a laddie, nay, e'en a captain, to itch his ass with the good hand & spare the hook for vittles forthcoming. Aye, the life of the pirate is tough, but tough tittie toenails as ole Whiskey once said, 'tween his keen observations on sexual duplicity. Tough tittie toenails, laddies, the music plays on. Retire to the crowsnest if ye seem to've lost yer pair & let the sun & wind stir yer loins back to happiness. Christ, a preacher I've become! To the bottle & be swift with ye laddies, ere the spirit possesses me! Let us to the seabed for a bevvy of mermaids & their netherparts, me laddies! Away!

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

'Twixt Famine & Fighting

Ere five days 'ave passed without a word, I sit before ye now, only to say that naught has transpired but anxious stasis. When ye sit back & lick yer wounds & think over the years of travail & wonder at the next impasse ye become bedeviled with the unsettling call of sentiment & hopeful despair, don't ye? Behind ye lay the ruinations of warring, the wounds that left ye scarred, the sunken brigates what left the forecastle stuffed tight with bounty, the long & oft forgotten hours wherein ye sang a tune of yer lost love while ahead her specter awaits ye, if not in this life then in some other. & the hopeful despair is its own breed, 'twixt famine & fighting especially, right there laddies? Ye hope, but hope is risen of despair, isn't it? The end of wanting? Hope after a better life, after a plentiful bounty, after the push of some momentous change in current or sighted land, & then go on & shit in the other hand laddies & see which'll fill fastest. We while the time away awaiting something unforeseen, & all the while the forms that fill our horizon prove delusions & vanish like a ghostly squall. So she goes, laddies, so she goes.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Those What've Seen the Tail End of the Plank

To live & lose & endure it in the name of copious bounty, aye, that is the motto aboard me ship. Aplenty of men have been driven shoreward under the waves or plunged in steel shackles to their watery grave & god bless them, aye. One of our own laddies was carried aloft upon a whale's back with his tallywhacker plugged in the spume-hole, like a wart growing on the back of that leviathan's gargantuan head. Let it be a lesson to ye. Plenty of our kind meet with the reaper early & with e'erlasting stupidity as the curse. Say what ye will of old Blackbeard, stowed away in a cay off the island, sipping rum for three days while the siren song of the Jamaican mermaid tinged the air in its mellifluous way, aye, & for three days he sat & took in the pleasure of his bounty ere the Brit snuck up on him with a broadside. Well, every fight wasn't meant for victory, nor every spume-hole meant for a laddy's privates.
A life at sea will teach ye quick mortality, & our forebearers' names float upon the seafoam and tideswirl just as the algae & dead seahorses do. Time, me laddies, she ticks & ere long ye learn not to tick her off. Gather ye rosebuds & all of that, plug yer whales, unsheath yer argent blade not in the name of honor, for honor is naught but futility laddies, but in the name of deed. Ye laddies & lassies are fodder for tomorrow's tales, aye you are, & though me sounds a bit like a grandaddy I'd err in not remindin' ye. I recall a young stowaway what joined our crew & called me capt'n for a brief while, & with every captured vessel he'd to its bowsprit like a rabid mammal after a kill, fightin to have 'is way with the lady upfront-- eventually we lost 'im to splinters too & damn well deserved, but damn 'im as ye may, he lived 'is measley little life.
Don't go after a wooden mannequin on account of a sea-tale, & keep yer distance from any brigatine ye see on the distant horizon, trust ye me, but live yer deeds & ere long the reaper'll record 'em for ye. Until then, I say raise yer goblet full me laddies & let the tide carry ye on!

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

A Pirate's Origins

Oft, in the realm of personal conversation, or from afar as well, I hear tell of persons inquiring after my past. How, they wonder, can a man of any ethical stature lend himself entire to a life of perceived privation, desperate violence, dubious motivations & physical hardship? I wonder at such queries, during long periods of quietude, borne aloft o'er the waves. I tell ye in earnest I know no other life. My dear pappy & mum, noble souls them both, I presume, left me blanketed & sleeping soundly in a half-watermelon rind on the stern of a man-of-war at bay, ne'er to see my cherubic face, ne'er to look into my one good eye again. My life was wrapped up in tide & turning wave from day one, I'm afraid, & afore long I came to know it & nothing else. I have seen, in my travels, my share of empires, of great cities surging toward the clouds, & aye, I've seen the touches of modernity sweep o'er the seven continents like a scourge of righteous vanity, but shiver me mast, I'd rather the life o' the sea, an honest life, a pirate's life. I'd rather live by the sword & cannon than by the stock market. I'd rather be afloat where a man is a man & he takes what he sees. Why are ye a pirate, Captain Dagger, they ask? The answer will please no man. I am a pirate because I was born a pirate, laddies. Come what may-- shaking tempests, wandering barks, drought & famine, mutiny or defeat-- I'll a pirate be till my bloody heart whispers its last & the gray clouds close o'er me. Damn the privation & damn the hardship, we endure, & in endurance lies vitality. So piss on ye who scorn me life & piss on ye who think the ship a relic of the past. My parrot, patched & green, will sing it with me: "we drink for the day when a pirate had his way, before the longshoremen before the coastguard, when a man was a man & he took what he saw."

A General Statement of our Disposition

Aye, a worthy & overdue form of communique this, when all around the waves be crashing & the whales singing in their bellowy monotone. I've lost count of the years this time, since last Elanore & I took in the breach of the shoal, uncorking a fine rum & whispering forgotten diddies to one another. Ere long I'll forget it all, leastwise if the rum tends its duty. Here, it is only Crow's Pussy & Whiskey & the crew entire, shoddy & bandy-legged, given to scrimshaw or scuffleboard or dreading whiskers in the style of old Blackbeard. I've dipped my own mustachio in scathing wax, fer something to do, the hours drawn & taut afore a treasure peeks out ahead, & why not? It is only life, however strange.
I listen to the parrot sing against the tide-wind & listen to the deep resonant thud of wind socking in the sail & death seems closer, closer, closer while on a far shore beyond or on the other side of the white fence my Elanore works the distillery in longsocks & a hairnet. Would that shore & sea collided! In the clarion call of the seashell I thinks I hear her singing.
I must away, the sea, she calls, the crew she mutines!