Monday, 7 March 2011

Take Courage

He does not (I repeat) pick fights
He searches for celestial lights
At the back of his blackout eyelids

This is not violence
This is the tale of a marooned pirate
Tattoed in violet bruises
Sea-legged and belly-full with shanty verses

These words are not curses
These are not half-empty glasses
These are all navigational tools
Which he uses to rouse his crew

He is not staggering, just drifting ashore
And the chair leg is but a poor
Substitute for an oar
And he tugs and pulls
And punches and bites

But this is not a fight
He is making waves again

Vomit stains will be washed by the rain
As he's thrown overboard onto the pavement
(Although that statement is false
Because of course
This is not a pavement but an ocean)

He can feel the heaving motion
As it leads him away
And pulls him under

And he is drowning
Not drinking
Not waving
He is not misbehaving
Just misadventured

They call him a shipwrecked soul
His helm of a head spinning out of control
Maybe they are right

Maybe he is picking fights
And his bucanneer brain just can't resist
The clashing of fists
And the smashing of bones

But this is home

They call him washed up
But these are the shores
Which have always moored him
Without anchor
Or hope

This is the land
Where he can't stand prowed
Where he can't discern between stern looks
And glossed over eyes
A place which has knocked the wind out of his sails
A place where no steady future is mapped out clearly
And all he can infer
Through the blur of the ale
Is thus:
There is no treasure on this island for him

But he digs
He kicks ribs and spits teeth
And he digs
So deep they say he's sunk too low
To be deserving of sympathies
But, no!
He's just persevering
Doesn't want to give in

He is not picking fights
He's just on a journey
Re-visiting chartered territory
But making it his own

And I don't know
Where he's going
But neither does he
Because I'm steering my own way
Around the Globe

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