Location: the waves, the ocean

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

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

A Farce Made of the Core of Me

Not, I'll not, cultural comfort, feast 'pon thee; nay, not choose not to be what type of man I be. Aye, for a day, laddies, there be a multiplicity of imposters that I dare say ought to wag their tongues o'er the stern of a brigate at yrs truly for a lark & see where it ends up-- in a jar 'pon me bedside table or swimming again in the hideous foam of irony that babbles endless 'tween their parted lips. But then, among me crew we've talk like an average bored American day, as long as we're able to stand it 'fore naught but an ill feeling & a putrid sense of futility rises like a morning fog 'round our feet, 'fore we begin to believe the words important in the least, 'fore we build our empire not of bounty, toil & innumerable victories, but 'pon an imperialism of the word. Back to Babyl with ye! Back to yr infernal tower!


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