Captain Cur

Gold Star - 5,136 Points (Born Late 1600's Date of Death Unknown / England)

Demon Seas, Parts 1 - 8 - Poem by Captain Cur

The vomit in my stomach
rises choking my neck.
My sails are in tatters.
My ship is a wreck.

The waves rise against me,
the winds squashing my flesh.
The weight of the water is pounding,
crushing my chest.

My knees give before me.
I stumble yet hold
onto the wheel of my vessel,
my hands calloused and cold.

I scream to my shipmates
but none hear my call.
A mast cracks above me
threatening to fall.

A foaming tongue of mighty length
comes hunting fore and aft
then broke the arm grips of a man
who was swallowed in it's path

and dragged down in a toothless mouth
with shale and stagnant breath
to the richness of her silty bed
where the crab mites feast on death.

Lightening shears the darkened skies
exposing faceless demons
whose voices roll and echoes long
express their morbid treason

against god, against man,
as they mount each rising swell
that smashes down my stricken ship
with the waterfalls of hell.

A blackened cloud hides the hand
of fates intent and mammoth purpose
that grips the tip of the topsails mast,
that steadies and supports us

in trials that test the pitch
filled seams of hollow boats,
that wears down human flesh
and sheds the skin that coats

the temporal spirit that thrives and lives
despite our base afflictions
that rises above the diseased mind
of criminal addictions,

Do I possess the will to break
the bestial need to hunt,
or wear the squalid shame of men
who fail on every front.

A towering wave of anguished breadth
our bow just barely breaks,
and flushes down my phlegm and spit
with a shell specked burning taste.

One of my better carpenters,
his toolbox breaking free,
grasping it falls in,
will forever build on the waves and the hills
of the boundless wood less sea.

I fight and I suffer,
I fall and I rise,
I will not plead or bargain
there is no compromise.

The worst lies before us,
the storms verdict anon.
We turn our bow into her,
replenished, by a few moments calm.

I call out to you in this briefest respite,
the soul of my journey, the wind of my life,
on a speck of dry land in a green island cove,

I call to you
Baharia Msichana,
my pirate rose.

Again I call out to you,
where there is hope and white sand.

Tell me I am your Captain!
Tell me I am your man!

The storm's fierceness returns,
and I grip firm the wheel
which governs the path
I must compass and scale.

I will not repent;
I will only cry out for more;
I have chosen this course;
I will bear the winds roar.

The ropes are lashed tight,
to men tethered to rails;
they are hammered by sleet
cutting as nails.

The storm won't concede
the skies violence must peak.
I hear the timbers crack
and the hulls ominous creak.

My body slowly broken,
by the seas furies might,
my spine's core deformed,
by vainly usurping what's right;

the nauseousness that builds;
the bile churning within,
the caustic stench that fills my bowels
with the faecal waste of sin.

I scan the deck and count
on these scared, tired men,
each one's stare insightful,
as we may all meet our end.

In there eyes the unsaid truths
that I now voluminously read,
as all pretensions have been dredged
by the schisms of the sea.

I know the eyes that defend me;
the eyes that dismay;
the eyes that challenge me;
the eyes that forgave;

the eyes that hate me;
the eyes that are kind;
the eyes that guide me;
the eyes that malign;

the eyes that envy me;
the eyes that cry;
the eyes of falsity;
the eyes that hide.

I hold no men dear,
the ones I trust are few,
even in those loyal eyes,
just a vapid friendship grew;

yet in each a brimstone tear
exposing the revulsion deep within,
that pry's wide open each wet eye
and holds firm the lid,

and in those glassy candid scopes
that undeniably bare
the bondage that their flesh respects,
is the bondage of their fear.

In this swoon my heart cut open,
I say the briefest prayer,
to a god I should love and worship
but it is god that I dare.

In this momentary weakness
exposing my pain to them,
of a scared, beaten, trembling child
who all that see condemn.

and in this rejected child,
the child with no name,
in this pillaged child
lived the beast I could not tame.

Again I call out to you,
on that sweet island sand.

Tell me I am your Captain!
Tell me I am your man!

The storm has shifted,
the winds violence quickly lessens,
in its place a deep fog settles
with profound unanswered questions.

In blindness and dread
a man clearly sees his nature,
deciphering the dark symbols
of his callous nomenclature,

written is his tiny book
with fawning penmanship,
rehearsing his life story
as the lies form on his lips.

Our ship slowly drifts
and my breathing thick and weighted,
remembering those eyes,
in which I was feared and hated.

In my eyes,
what did my men's stares
intuitively divine?
Do they deem me courageous,
or lacking moral spine?

Do they see the poisoned seed
of where my viciousness has led,
watered by the balmy springs
where innocence has bled?

Do they see my captive soul
that's carved from hardened ice
shaped like a canine beast
that wears the mange of life;

shattered into deadly shards
that snarls and rips apart
anyone who dares to strip
the hatred from my heart?

My ship sets stream
for green island coves and carpentry repairs,
but what can mend a rabid man
whose skull fly's in despair?

If love can heal, then love must bear
the burdens of my past,
the blight of evils said and done,
can even time outlast?

I do not know these answers
for it is the sea, who is my teacher,
the harsh lesson that she tutors,
as with brine she schools the leeches,

that fall in her deep grip, her openness
and the blue mirror of her glass
that reflects the shallow bitterness
that undermines my class,

of a raping pirate, thieving thug,
and no poetry can mask
the true horror of my murderous being
and the rupture of my cask

that leaks my life blood
into her vast and corrosive brine.
I drink from her, an evil thirst,
which has never satisfied.

I crave the pungent taste that feeds
the salt madness of my mind.

If I still believe that god can save
a wretched slimy thing,
It is what that fruit, that single fruit,
has offered me to bring,

whatever remnants of my soul
that loss and suffering has purged,
I take back to that place, that island cove,
where a chance meeting occurred.

And again I call to you;
I call to you,
to feel the softness of your hand.

Tell me I am still your Captain!
Tell me I am still your man!


Poet's Notes about The Poem

From the diary of Cur,
Captain of the Malevolent
Demon Seas
Circa 1640

Comments about Demon Seas, Parts 1 - 8 by Captain Cur

  • Shahzia Batool (1/27/2013 10:36:00 AM)


    I will not repent;
    I will only cry out for more;
    I have chosen this course;
    I will bear the winds roar.

    How unbelievable to hear this strong voice again! ! !
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, January 26, 2013



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