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Postmodern Village
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Deadlight Chantey
by Christin Call

—in memory of D.C.

'Ere's yer toast, me hearty Jack Tar,
t' sink yer eye in this worm-y crust
an' tater sauce—fer both of us've a taste
for th' rank meat, th’ wreakin’ grog.

How the ruby velvet smelts
by this tarnin’ 'earth,
where's the starries we spun—
me scars burnin’ vengeance,
yer pony singed as a cannon's hump!

And tied our wrists fer th' roast,
two Jolly Rogers—yer skin could sag
down to mere bone—
like me ivory cask an' chaser
as I warm me toes
on th' grate's oily bars.

Because ye won th' lady,
yer dirty kess,
this one no fussy, copper-bottomed bitch.
Yer mouth stayed, open plasure,
mattress soiled by th' gappin’ fondled skull.
Aye, we'd dreamt o' tha’ powder
like talcum sieve on a cage.

A toast: ye ravished 'er lad,
'er blackly soft, smotherin’ breasts,
an' 'er hands seized ye like a siren
severin’ through a choppy mist.

Blymie, a terrifyin’ wench.
Speak lad.
In't she?