01-02-2011, 02:12 PM
The old man loved the sea,
though I, the reader, know not why,
when in Hemingway’s famous novella,
it proffered him nothing but blood, sweat and tears.
But, then again, I’m only fifty pages in, so
perhaps the waves, those pesky waves, will soon
redeem themselves. Perhaps the tides, those wicked tides,
will yield and then congeal, become a gang of Harlem whores,
whom on Havana’s beaches he‘ll seduce,
fuck and regale with sports stories, tales of “the great DiMaggio,”
whilst his marlin watches on, blood seeping from his
mouth - like water from a cracked white sink, red wine through an
upturned bottle, lies from the mouth of a cleric -
the hook on his lip some African disc, as his face, cold and
morose with its huge monocles, mourns the loss of their
companionship, his worthy foe, the man who loved their sea.
Oh, if only such a fish would rise and drag a soul like me,
I’d hold the line until my fingers broke; then, bereft of land
forevermore, I’d lie abreast the stern and drift, feel my throat
grow dry and weak - aged, brown flower - and the sun slip from my sight.
[Image: http://www.turnbacktogod.com/wp-content/...he-Sea.jpg]
though I, the reader, know not why,
when in Hemingway’s famous novella,
it proffered him nothing but blood, sweat and tears.
But, then again, I’m only fifty pages in, so
perhaps the waves, those pesky waves, will soon
redeem themselves. Perhaps the tides, those wicked tides,
will yield and then congeal, become a gang of Harlem whores,
whom on Havana’s beaches he‘ll seduce,
fuck and regale with sports stories, tales of “the great DiMaggio,”
whilst his marlin watches on, blood seeping from his
mouth - like water from a cracked white sink, red wine through an
upturned bottle, lies from the mouth of a cleric -
the hook on his lip some African disc, as his face, cold and
morose with its huge monocles, mourns the loss of their
companionship, his worthy foe, the man who loved their sea.
Oh, if only such a fish would rise and drag a soul like me,
I’d hold the line until my fingers broke; then, bereft of land
forevermore, I’d lie abreast the stern and drift, feel my throat
grow dry and weak - aged, brown flower - and the sun slip from my sight.
[Image: http://www.turnbacktogod.com/wp-content/...he-Sea.jpg]
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe
Should I put in a content warning though for use of the "F" word? Normally I would have but this time I forgot.