ISHMAIL — a fiction
Well, my spleen is ready to burst.
Fuck their dreary little lives and monthly wage packets. Fuck their prim-and-proper little parties and trim-and-dapper after-dinner costumes. Fuck their stuck-in-their-way, rain-on-my-parade little November lives. Knock off their hats and split their heads before they suck you dry and pull out every drop of the sea until there is nothing left but bile.
I need a boat. I need to get out there, leave them all behind. I need to embrace that eternal goddess with her rolling waves and saltwater tits. God bless the depths of her vast cunt: deep and dark and fathomless.
That’s where I should be — where the horizon is stripped bare and laid flat, ready for the taking. My mistress of moisture. God bless her and all who sail on her.
Who am I? Just a slave of the waves; a free man of the ocean; the husband to the bitch of the sea.
Who am I? I’m exactly who I should be.
Who am I? Well, fuck you. You can just call me Ishmail.