Dark Hope

Rounding in around and in that while
My lithe-whorled-self departs normal
Hope descending down into estranged
And spectral darkling spaces—to etched
Depths of where withal—to face a sphere
Of fear hardly ephemeral and caught so
By moody spirits I’m spun sick—all of
Which are dark. am I combing the lantern
Lit-vizard souls? —whose ought is rot
To aught as Rolle’s Theorem is to rot
Because the rung bell’s toll is naught
There or else—as this man, weighed
Downward to hear sea innards—his lungs,
What fenced in the air soon released from
Its partiality, rather, his fancy. time awaits
This least regurgitated discourse—it can’t
Help but wait—the last of his chest’s partisan
Compression to leave out—bubbled out,
Blew of out his mouth; its exhaled muffled
Breaths stirred up such distal-distancy of
An epicurean feast, so ethereal that dog howl
Utterances—those which ululate eternally
As fear—willed no entity response: nothing
Tolled in everything that was going down!

When sea depths call—fear hangs as nothing
Loitering long at all to answer and its chariot
Will swing to due course and fro of duped self,
Embosomed by articulated unison—syncopated
Lights toll in darkling skies distancing as if all
Above sea was a more distilled affair. singly,
By lain-in-wait design, untamed as this man’s
Habitual melancholy was I perceive through
The lonely soul of this man’s gloomy eye, shee.
My spiritual ally stirred me via this man’s sea
Wicked epitome. a price is paid to sojourn down—
To be mated to another soul—to swim with her
In unison to unused depth’s of this Unholy
Forever Night, its consequence slays flesh
And ensiles courage—issue and spirit—thrice.

So, off the isle of Galveston or some delusive
Sandy-shore, therefor, where once he was
Sitting lLowly and alone, akimbo legs sway
A palpable thought. atop that long elusive
Quay there is the only sight I fear, seeing
This man growing small in the sea, never
Reaching the evanescent azure before sinking
Into the sea of night so as not to be alone.
I know I can’t help the comrade of my-fallen-
Fool-self but to twitch and watch myself
Swim after that unsuspected spectacle making
Me deft of depths in genuine whorl—below
The well-worn sea of nymph and siren world—
And sought is shee—yet unseen. why o’ why
Did this lonely soul of gloomy man—the solitary
Comrade, me, whirl so far-out just to dip below
The siren’s pallid blue coral at sea—on the noon
When the sea is cool and smooth—when lyrics
Were synonymous with the siren song of promise
To Odysseus, but song was for me, calling me
Out and down through cerulean depths, sewn
Well was I into its darkling cobalt light, tilling
Those legs—mine I was, with more than might.
With akimbo legs and arms had I humbly employed
What remains as only support of one heart’s
Search for that black pearl daughter; shee will
Yet to be my reward of majesty—my reward
Of magnificence my reward of glorious grandeur,
All in my opine that can be endured, and yet
There will be mystery for the saddest grief, sorrow
And the worst melancholic misery: glory be!
Whether April and May is spent in the sea
All that I will ever see from here forward

Is dark waters, always, surrounding me—it
Makes me think about, up there, dear old
African—our Father Land—where sward
Millet are seeded—in ever will I see its
Season, to astound any as neither will its
Sight’s ills weigh, overwhelm, and engulf
Inescapably, this realm I’m in—if I could
Flee—swim with bowhead tail—take flight
Anywhere less apposed to west-south-west
I would. if hope could help I would pray,
If being wistful would help I would desire—
If chance could rally a lent hand, I struggle
To whisper and to yearn, the cry of: please,
Please, please! please wash my past into
Coming ill-fears, Calypso “Mother-Goddess
Of the sea,” mother of Black Pearl—the one
I seek, sea wind—thrill wind, wind and curl
Me o’er Mother’s highest wakes and down,
Way down and away. sea magic shape a wake
Mapping my lost route, wind me a wind to
Mark my means-length along, or send me
A maelstrom to mark my stairs as I dig
Downward to her lair. snap—as a pig boar
Whoring—me back, if you must. but know
I’ll wade awaiting my next chance, or rest
In that which dragooned me out from the shallow
And onto sandy-sinew, which shall have swilled
Keenly my-deplete-self, doomed to center my
Quintessential tendon-tenancy. I pray that after—
If any wish can reach beyond this beyond, by
Opposing the sum of Mother-Calypso’s
“Wind-torn” suddenness let my will be swept
Down—and I will go without a peep; preying
On expectation—no, praying beyond, beyond
Hope—rather, hoping beyond wanton desire
That her swelling maelstrom proffered to well
Me, take lowly me, clammy and lovingly sweet
Into the queerness of this indigo night. lease me
O’ Svengall, there or leave me there—as svarabhakti
Would a new word—take me so far so that I can see
Me churning lithelessly too slightly with a least felt
Susurrus svelte way, through some hardly-weighted
Symmetry welded to some buxom crevasse’s
Direction; take my breath away (so that my thoughts
Become swears); take my air away (so that I can’t
Breathe); take my sense (so that I can’t think).
O’ eagle riding an expansive edge of the azure—
Hardly taken aback is this flight floating as if you
Have no care and heed not a thought to nest in
Some bottomless pit—I implore you “take Me
Down.” I’ll go down anyway without you, without
Regard even for Mother Calypso who gave spawn
To deep—and from those depths, waterborne—
Who gave purpose to me, that of just finding
Shee—where out of and from what shee came—
Flowers forth my Black Pearl, who’s never
Apart from my eye, the unseen—yet for her,
This birth stings. its twilight is for me. for,
By wide-while and by wild-girth, one that
Cannot be crossed will not be until it is time;
And I have waited all my life, in that place
Before her time and now I am here, slain,
at a insane less saintly time same as shee.
This is there, as there is where I want to be,
For with her hallowed self doth sprinkle

A little bit of her bitter spirit, the flower’s
Of her wormwood wealth that naturally
Overcomes this man’s gloominess—mine.
That is why I could not help but always
In all ways vigil shee, even with these,
Perhaps all that is left of my last in waning-
Breath self—more than such, in her adept
Blue moon which none will ever see, whereas
Failing as my flailing about what could be
My last hope—I’d rather be grasping up
To climb a gelded black rose stem—for shee,
With her rage—which condescends any kind
Of pacification—I mean whichever calms her
Not; as well, this sea not—as if spewed from
Or bitch-slapped by a ghost, of some profound
Depth in the sea, of whalebone tail. And after
That while—and I hoped it a dream—me lain
On my back, push up by a storied wave set
Into darkled sandy seashore drying or dying.
Let me say, it would not have matter had she
Torn each, and every, one of my limbs and left
Only a part as remains. Whether scarred or
Worn thin, that scare—what would instill
Stiff-fear in any other man, hardly takes me
More away from my probing heart, which
Constantly—is continually—and will forever
More—be searching for her umbra shadows—
In the darkling dimness—that depth feared—
O’ to touch her indigo and rose-less lemur,
My mollusk, my pearl, whether deep…,
Or whether I need go deeper underneath
The crust Of the sea. the dream of being
Washed ashore hardly encompasses an end
For me yet I continue to endeavor the stream
Of pain; which is a deadly harp singsong
Sung about epitome welled deep in depths

Of my heart’s aloneness; for I am that lowly
Unkempt soul without her, such woes in lows
Darkens a poor man—me. my wish fulfilled
Is to search and know only that shee, exists—
O’ to seek her. o’ to find her, be that godsend
Left aloft by her, so much better is it than bliss.
Far from me the sea whorled her, cold seawaters
To comfort—alone and left far behind am I—
A wayfaring-soul too, am I. the wakes that quake
Perplexed disharmony can hardly go with wakes
That washed me up to darken the sand. yet I
Went again—fifth or sixth time whichever—
I cannot remember, I can’t help myself to even
Care when or where, so I let me be to find
That gem even if aught espied, for it is too deep
In the oyster’s heart, maybe its damned so deep
That the sea-dampen dank dips nothing darkling
In this unfounded nadir of despair. and in part
Of that surly sea goes surely yet that happy soul
Of me. I swim down until into the start of a new
Dawn, whether I bloat or float all over the sea let
Me not part from dream to escape or float from
Darkness. within the dream of my mind—shut
Down, darkled, dimmed—now and always, let
Priceless Beauty be—whether yet soullessness
Is untwined—whether last breath of mine is forever
Astray—let soul of this man’s dark hope vanish in me.