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To Be Shore

from ShiPPe by Captain Verbese

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lyrics

To Be Shore

Saved? They were; but was He?

The first thing I noticed was the sound of crickets: it was unbearable and droned on and on, buzzing this way and that, sometimes higher and sometimes lower. She said to me that they that “weren’t crickets at all, but machines, but that made them no less alive; in fact they sung to each other—thousands of them” or what seemed to be thousands of them—droning on and on and on. Those who were part of the mutiny celebrated with each, carried in arm “or arm” or in the arms of their rescuers to be hidden behind doors, still visible through the noise that they made, almost loud enough to be heard over the crickets, but she took me away. I had “not been involved” she said, and “perhaps you were one of the few who had survived—the only one who was not a part of the sea.” So she hid me somewhere. “Away, away, you must hide.” Somewhere alone: she left me there.
“I will come back. I will.” Inside it was loud and hot and those inside did not sing, but played music: they played drums which hummed along with the machines—or perhaps the machines hummed along with them; they changed their tune and melody to suit the beat, no longer talking to each other, but the drums instead as if they too were alive. And I...I was alone.

They played instruments: they were machines too, tuned but playing without tune, and though it grew dark the sky was without a moon: the ceiling was glass and the walls sprawled with runes, they were illegible and sparse, and the musicians were all nude, the crowd was a farce composed of half hearted darts with noses like bassoons, and they swayed this way and that barking like baboons; the floor tilted leading down to the catacombs, the shattered moon painted the dance floor in a dusky gloom, the husky instruments re-tuned to suit the new doom: its pieces floated across the dunes, hopelessly lost, but not marooned and though it should be dark the city lights sparked harpoons; the wielders laughing as their shark teeth consumed...
It was a mad dash for those fuelled by hash, they wore four hats and stashed their identity behind fake ‘staches, the hashish bashers watched wistfully as they washed brutally the stains of tomfoolery from street corner jewellery, polished but clean, impoverished and mean justice was carried by white gloves through lifelong hugs that crushed hearts filled with drugs, and signed death warrants in blood; drowned the abhorrent in mud and signed up anyone in love with justice’s soft touch, the brush huffed and puff, another hidden from sight, soon to be invisible in front of Justice’s blindfolded eyes, ice cold another night where the desert sun turns white the sand dunes, and freezes those with self-imposed impunity fleeing from justice ruthlessly with no remorse or hope of redemption, but they’ll decompose and their bones will make good weapons when time chimes for seconds.

It was not long before I was discovered; an exotic foreigner smothered by agnostic brothers of a thousand (thought lost, but apparently) recovered religions. They were enamoured by my jugular and rhythms, for a thousand reasons, with a ream that intrigued my heart’s beating seasons; Caligula laws: a beating and feeding, a foreign object to be objectified and bled in. The bigger perimeter the harder the scheming, the bigger the whore the harder the beating, and I picked up scraps of words until I had a hearty meal to feed in, a handful of teeth and a tongue in my dreaming, we were to go walkabout though I was late for a meeting, where we’d talk about, all the dangerous demons, and how to force them out, of my dangerous breeding. A skin such as mine would be marked by the sun, a sign that I was a “not-so-dark heathen”, and I had to atone for my sin across a spiritual bridge; consequences for the body, and not just the soul: they were terribly sorry: “but you had to go, let the spirit of the sun devour you whole, and next time we meet we will meet your whole; your soul will have grown and you’ll be a hundred years old.” But before they could take me my saviour arrived, and dived into fight with devilishly cries: “He’s mine, I found him; a fine slave he’ll make, I rightfully own him and you cannot take, my property that’s theft and there’s laws about that, and they’ll properly hang you: you’ll fall for that; I don’t much mind, kill yourself if you wish, but you’re rich enough to afford your own slaves so give this one a miss.”

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from ShiPPe, released September 15, 2012

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Super Happy Soapland Melbourne, Australia

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