A Pirate's Advice

Laddies, o'erwhelming was yr response to me last post & for good reason at that indeed, for what comes of a man when 'is very livelihood paints the terrestrial billboards in such a vast array of flattering colors, aye? What comes of a man when 'is mission becomes defense, when, e'en at sea, borne aloft 'pon the dark waves, the wintery albatrosses flying o'erhead, he must define 'isself against the common misconceptions? Aye, lads, 'tis a miserable thing, wont to defend oneself, e'en as the very act cries of caring, when me crew, me foes, me heart does know what little me thoughts are riddled by that outside me sabre's sphere. There be no facsimile, lads, nay, nor a seat from which one may comfortably sympathize e'en unto the point of empathy. What knows yr cap'n of a pilot's life, of that of a civil war soldier's, of a baker's? Naught! I'll aspire to me own script, lads, writ in the blood of me foes, the cast a mutinous lot of scurvy would-be privateers, the plot unfurling e'en unto the horizon's edge, e'en as each day folds into each next, e'en as me heart pounds me dirty blood through me dirty veins, & e'en as that blood pours o'er the dirty planks of me dirty enemies' brigates! Life! What there is of it!

While the Iron Blazes

't occurs to me, laddies, that the collective countenence of the United States 'as its ugly head focused 'pon the dire spectacle of a pirate film at the moment, aye, & one based 'pon some mockery of a child's ride no less in some sprawling Floridian hellhole. Such impudence! To celebrate the pirate as a phenomenon untouched by woe, lads, untainted by sin, aye, uncursed, glorious, & so on-- aye, I say bring yr child 'board me ship, aye, & put 'im in the poopdeck for a fortnight until we be a healthy distance in open water, aye, drawing closer to our target, lads. Then bring lit'le Billy 'pon the deck to see the glory & glamour, the triumphant fun of blood soaking the planks beneath 'is li'l toes, of feral strikes of swords against the flesh of men, of the shrill scream of the dyin' brigateer 'neath me dagger, lads, of the stech of the dead borne aloft o'er mast & starboard where the sharks wait with their fangs gleaming white, aye! Li'l Billy, taste the blood of yr crewmate & call yrself a pirate! Draw yr sword out of its scabboard & 'cross the neck of yr first mate at the first sign of treason, li'l Billy, aye, & spend yr lonely nights with naught but the sorrowful dirges of yr parrot patched 'pon yr shoulder. I curse the glory & glamour that spreads o'er the screen, a shining chimera that not even the greatest of the Golden Era saw! See Kidd's head 'pon its spit, see the smoke die in Blackbeard's severed beard, li'l William, aye, & see what came of Bonnie & the rest! Such brief hours, such fugitive charm in the pirate's life! O woe betide, o crimson pallor, o steer me ship clean of such putrid characature!

Where be ye, lads?

Where now the green fields, aye, & Elysian shores, lads? Where the verdure of the petulant summer o'er the shadows that speckle the sand? A lair for a pirate, aye, when all around me, all all around me, methinks me sees meself in a culture that I know naught of. 'Tis a prayer, lads, to call a pirate's life a glamorous one, aye, for what of travail & strife & stress & stormy sea & murder & treachery & treason & mutiny know ye? What then of a parrot's blood, of 'is feathers in yer teeth, of the spotted wave-arms where yer patch brings it nigh or renders it a blur in the distance with no warning, lads? What of long months in the cabin when monsoons strike unrelentless, of dark nights atop the crowsnest in the wind, of lonely diddies sung for ears that hear naught of the sweet melodies? If ye be among they who deem me life, the life of a pirate, one of glamour & honor & valor, ye be a pernicious fool. Aye, a pirate's life be not for all, lads, but for me, I can haver no other.