The women stay silent,
Muttering only to themselves.
And men are dreaming,
Their mouths open like the beaks of dying birds,
Dreaming of the night whores,
And the river flows in tiny pieces,
Bringing only blood, and the constant
Horror of the falling moon.
The women who have spread themselves
Against the bitter sky wait on the the last ship,
Before the tide turns.
Turning as the dead winds blow.
There is no cure for this land
No bend along the way.
Spit and spittle washed by the piss
Of loose women and the filth
Of every mind flowing seaward.
The sky lies mutilated,
And the river cries with the heartbreak of the dead.
Each sailors footprint etched in the eternal arch,
As the last ship sails into view,
It’s rust a harbinger of its doom
It’s decks, landscapes full of graveyards lie
Each anchor coiled like a serpent hissing as it falls.
The river flees before it, abandoning itself
To this nightly corpse.
And the living, stumbling between the land and river
Consume themselves and their despair.