Ooh, a pirate poem!

I was at the pub.

Some velvet Mary slinked on past and took my pirate hand, and
In’ The Gents’ she tucked on my pieces and parts
And while the band played ‘The Caliban’, we fucked.

And then she cooed some old weary tune
About, “Oh, the grog, the grog, it’s due,”
And we flushed her undies down the bog
And the band ended up playing ‘til One
- thank God.

But this Mary, turns out, had a fella ‘Fat Jack’
Who got sobered and angry and confused,
So I got the Hell right out of that pub
And out to the safety of the town
‘fore Jack brought the fury down upon me.

There in the gutters of Piratetown some weird old bastard
Picked me up, emptiness and all, and took me in to his home.
I rested on that cunt’s couch that took me in.
I knew his face from somewhere past,
He may have been my Dad.
If he wasn’t my Dad he was my Priest
But that Christmas Eve I said, “I am too pissed
To give one Holy flying fuck who he may be, or is.”

The couch was holey and Holy and wholly ruined
With spills and remains and waste.
It stunk like old-things,
But old-things that are made profoundly great
By their aching and ageing,
Like trees, plonk, paintings.
And above the headrest was a painting of that fella
(who may or mayn’t be my Priest or Father)
Looking younger and curiouser and sober.

A stately portrait of the Queen of England
Hung like a halo o’er the heath.
Offenbach bled from the stereo, the cunt,
And a cat pissed on my feet.

His daughter was real.
Some pokey pirate chick with a tattoo of Dante’s Inferno
On her tit who licked my belly by the weird cunt’s fire
And that’s how I spent Christmas Eve in ‘95.

The couch was pink, did I mention?
The daughter jumped on
The couch sang a one-note song with springs tuned to the note of E
- we sang along.

The pink couch held me tight in its withered pink arms
As I held the daughter in my pirate arms
But the old cunt never came in to Preach to me
(though the Queen of England saw right through me)

And then we slept, we slept for minutes,
I dreamed the beach had died.

The pokey one, the chick, she had no name.
She had no name.
She woke me from that dream where the beach had died in my arms.
She held me to her bosom.
I knew not how this would play or end,
Or whether she intended anything at all for her and me
(Did I owe her father a fee?)
But fuck me if she wasn’t everything my dear mother
Warned me against.

Offenbach! Shit.

I bolted.

I ran to the sea because I’m a pirate, you see,
And I was glad that the beach was alive.

I collapsed in a heap,
(I’d had little sleep).

“I am alive,” I thought, “And so is the sea
And so is the beach and so is every hideous sea creature
And they’re singing to me
Jingle Bells, jesus god bless their song,
They’re singing fucking Jingle Bells right up at me.”
- I sang along.

A shiny gold sovereign awaits the lucky TSFKA reader who can identify the author of this poem. **

Unusual conditions apply.

**Shiny gold sovereign may not exist.