Fighting Cock On The Rocks, in Seventeen Minutes on a Sunday Night

  
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The glass of the window showed her the same exact picture every time she closed in on it. Colours of the sky, the faraway miniature skyline of tiny blurry lights molded into the waters, through the doorway of boats, the foghorn, escaping her again into black before she could figure out the meaning of the puzzle that it captivated, and controlled her by. Some walls hold us in position to await emancipation, and others close us up in the cloak of our own limitations, our silly fucking brains running round us in a right-left-right-left (or right-left-left-right depending on which way you're facing) infinity pattern, distracting us in our own sentence structures and punctuation choices, while it threads itself into our bodies, into our histories and possibilities, and before you know it, you just sit still, because you cannot move of your own volition, cause it turns out all along you had been paying bribes to that fleet of weavers to keep you, fast held and tight, while your thoughts ran races around them and caged them in, and so on and so forth...you can get out of the madhouse, says the warden, stinking of joints and cheap beer, you just need 50 or so keys...

Eventually you grow tired of their whereabouts, and the treasure map laid forth on cobblestone streets loses its mystified allure...why wander the streets when you can swim to the shallow, rounded bottom of the amber coloured glass in the bottle that they sell you after hours at the off licence, when you think no one is looking. But, someone always is. They told me that when I was little. Never grab your dress if its caught in the cheeks of your ass, or make an unholy face, cause that's when someone is always looking. I say, let them look. Next time they do, I'll lift my skirts and really give them something to see. I run up and down the halls, dazzling in my own humanity and the chemical combinations that bubble up in me, never to be held down by nobody, seen or otherwise. Blowing kisses as I go, pressing my tits up against the church glass, cause it feels good, and, you know, that's good enough reason for me.  To stand, ass showing, or mouth rambling, eyes look their last, or first, no matter how the divining cards fall around us, with the knowledge that the magic of everything will and must never be denied, brings me good tides as the same tides swallow me up, assassinating the part of my brain that expects, doubts and disbelieves.

I still believe, without the word lie caught in it safe snare, in the beckoning colours and lacy shadows that the sky promises me every night, that I live without crisis, dysfunction, threat or malnutrition of my being, with the laughter, easy as my thighs, that prevents me from taking my mind at its word, because those words change daily, but I am still right here, in the trust that shall overpower the suicidal downward movers, those barnacles on the most grand of ships in my fleet, tear them bloody off of the supple limbs and breasts of my masthead, my girl that wants it all, that aches and breathes, and drinks in everything she can in this moment and the next coming in towards her, one challenge of a wave at a time (swallowing some water never kept her down too long; besides your throat only hurts for a few moments and then, a few more swallows, and the salty rims are gone past your gullet), and in the belief- silly, misshapen, redeeming, denied or otherwise, in the ship itself. For its captain, high up in the fog looking ahead, is the only one who knows where he's going, and where we're going, so we drink and swallow to the new nights and days, and rains and lies, and she smiles (again) in the knowledge of her self, for the captain's clouds keep him safe above, and he ain't talking just yet, so drink up.