Let us face it Passepartout

There is always the tedium of the passage

We are not supposed to write about it

It bores the reader.

At night

Images drop at me

Like thieving crows

Leaving me empty

I lie and above my bunk :

intricate spider webs

between a Crucified Christ

the Cross

and the partition

I sit up:

Facing the empty bottle

Crimes of art

I shoot

Birds lift off my hair

I smoke:

Flicking a match

at a strange roach clicking away

Inhaling as it scampers off

Exhaling: I have the generosity of a blind beggar

distributing money to a passer-by

I share the energy of a butt

consuming itself in the ashtray

I want to provoke

To hurt

Another walk on the deck:

Moon again

On an uncertain tired ocean

Moon motionless, frosty, cruel

A strange light icing the foam

Oppressive

Quiet

It is not beautiful Passepartout

It doesn't have a heart

The Moon is a stone with a torch shining on it

A Warship sails by

It makes a gruff noise

Like a dog

Barking at a drunkard

Seated on the pavement

Ag, the trade in body parts!

There was a moon once

I remember: hot wind

Ricocheting on rock

I had a thousand things to say then

When life was of some undefined value

When I was not a misprint

I hear music:

“Play that again

Without a hand” – I shout

Holding it severed in my hand

Pissing on his guitar

in my mind –

Instead, on the foredeck all are happy

and pretty singing along his strum

Give Philippinos a guitar and they are happy

said the Captain

A Voice on a radio

Declaring the end of exploitation

or something like that

in a peculiar language

What a night of Miracles!

Images drop at me like thieving

crows.