The peoples gathered on the shoreline
white wash foam bubbling round bare feet
sinking into the sand
and drawing back.
In a small, rusty boat he paddled
past the dock and beyond the sunset
before long
he could see land no more.
The peoples felt the tide gathering
strength, heard an eery silence
from the blue waters
surrounding their island.
His skin dried and cracked, bled
from his palms; he paddled on,
watching for the eruption, sunken eyes
patroling the horizon.
The moon reflected off ripples like
long streaks of samurai swords, wavering,
soothing, like a poem, caressing the child,
before the kill.
The hermit, Knowa, sulks from the beach
back to his den, while the women wept,
and the men stood silent, whispering
prayers that went unnoticed.
Lacking sleep, water, he paddles through the
rising tide, it swirling, bubbling, belching, blowing
fierce warnings of mist in his face; he rises, chest high
and stares down the endless night.
The boat tipped, rocked, thousands of tiny,
pyramid shaped cones, sharp and choppy,
surrounded him,
as far as the eye can see.
He stands scared, stripping naked,
jaw shivering, stomach crumbling, erecting his member
with bloodied fists and taking hold
at the root of pleasure and evil, preparing for war.
Against the Moon, looming large above him,
a giant white light encompassed with dark,
the smiling captor and caster
of souls.
The Moon pulls and directs its minions,
small, savage, feral creatures, against the boy;
the waves rocking the boat, casting broken
splinters of wooden paddles into the darkness.
The boy begins to stroke himself,
surging strength, determined, elated by
whatever end
may come.
Waves line up, crash in symmetry, one after another,
walls of white foam spray his eyes,
gag his nostrils, blinding him; he raises an arm
and waits.
For the final wave, peaking up like a
mountain off the horizon; he feels
the sparks inside him, waiting, fighting
off these spiked legions.
They bob up and down, kicking, the wind
screaming, waves crashing against steel
and skin, spraying outward, raining back inside itself,
warm and cozy, tranquil.
The wave draws is back,
pulls in all the water, a whirlwind of swirls, back
into and amongst the gathering wave, it looming,
gathering strength, speed, girth.
The ocean floor is sucked, the boat swept
from under his feet
into the giant hand before him; he steps off and sinks
bare toes into muddy Earth.
For a moment he stands
at the very bottom of the ocean,
staring down
a 600 ft. wave.
If you took a picture, what dynamics it’d encompass,
a still shot revealing the Moon, laughing,
watching from behind it’s wave, like a mad orchestrator,
watching it’s own play.
A boy, squaring his shoulders, his rectum tightening
but in the pit of his stomach, he’s drawing power,
from all those left back at shore, cast from the garden,
dead from pursuing life.
The wave, breaking, the top crumbling,
hundreds of feet above him,
the center opens up, like a giant, black mouth,
it breaks.
The boy strokes hard, pumping himself,
waiting for his moment, the giant wave just within reach;
in it’s white rushing lines he sees a fleeting
outline of God, and shoots.
Pelvic thrust forward, shoulders back,
chest high, teeth gnashed he released,
all that is capable in him, all his potential,
crevice to core, hatred and love and lust.
The two collide, explode,
a flash, a blinding white light covered the world
shrieked the night through
relentless in the ears of the Islanders.
The seed of the boy,
from the depths of his carcass, versus
the girth of the sea, the Moon
watching.
When the tide leveled,
and calmed the next day, the
battered, broken paddled boat
washed ashore.
But the sun rose not, was
blocked, by a giant, black cloud,
that covered the skies, and brought rain,
for forty days, and forty nights.
And the peoples watched the rain come,
climbed atop their homes, climbed the
tallest of trees, prayed silent prayers,
praising the boy, and were drowned.
For the boy had disrupted the tranquility of obedience,
but in the boy, God had seen ambition, determination,
and it reminded Him of Himself,
and he was proud.
And during those forty days and forty nights,
hidden behind a vast, black cloud,
when it reemerged,
the Moon held a face of mourning for the boy.
Mr. Mellow
