slate writing with echoes out of hemingway
scribble scrabble sketchings full of paranormal precognitions
trying to tell me something
like a deranged ouija board with a mind of its own
sending ominous messages by itself
but I can’t get this cheap rum out of my head
from that deeper than deep dive by the docks
my blue eyes aren’t seeing too well either
from seeing too much the night before
this just in - a message from the other regions
a communique from spirits beyond
sending a warning of peril
impending doom, a premonition of misfortune
but I just can’t quite decipher it totally
but I have a suspicion that it’s about
dangerous characters and nefarious circumstances
captains who’ll run anything if there’s enough money in it
cutthroat crews that can’t be trusted
white curtains blow in an upstairs attic
full of cheap furniture and booze
above a dilapidated warehouse with dubious cargo
the northern wind bringing with it a late autumn chill
throwing daggers with precision
the loneliness of an unmarked grave
the harbor is an eerily eerie place
with its creaking boards haunting foghorns it’s foggy m.o.
hands in pockets I walk out to the end of a pier
eyes in the back of my head
or I’ll know the loneliness of an unmarked grave
