Thursday, September 27, 2012

3900. RECOMPENSE

RECOMPENSE
This recompense is shoddy, and the
boats are rocking in the water. It is silent
where I sleep : some very old and run-down
room on the sailor's edge of town. Seaport
wayfarer, that's me. It's been three hundred 
years, in fact, since I've left the port. No
matter, you wouldn't believe the way the vain
and the proud still lie to me. A long time ago,
in the basement here, was a dog-fighting parlor;
drunks and violent veterans would bet and stammer
with their vehement tongues  -  about chances of
death, about outlasting time. The filthy curs, all
bloodied and crying, would die a nasty death.
It all still makes me sick, and I'm glad they
closed it down. I cried nearly every night. It
was better replaced, not so long after, by a
second floor brothel  -  a much better deal,
I always said. (Or, as Farley the drunk put it
'first it was dogs, now it's pussies'). Whatever
the situation may be, I am - as I said - still here;
the original ancient mariner who goes nowhere. 
Men are dogs themselves, I only now realize  -  
but it took me so very long to see.

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