A Chiasmic Cavalcade and Calamity
I’ve learned your habit of weed I keep it in my ear I’ve loved and lost And shrugged and tossed I have found my way indeed Through weed, that is, my dear Waste and haste besought and ground me Bones they do adhere But spirit rides the crashing tides Eternal ship and sailor queer Demanding sky sick horses Pride-hard men Seekers of enlightenment Just hard fucking bong rips and sea monsters by lamplight. Like, “hello: I’m a fucking stega-fuck-you-a-sauras and you’re dead.” Curtains. But they survived Our pirate parents If your people came here on any boat, under any circumstances; free, slave, prideful, ignorant, guilty, curious, or insane—they were of savagely righteous spirit and mean constitution to have endeavored, perpetrated, outsmarted, endured: simply for having survived. In all seriousness, I don’t think they had weed, and it would make them proud to know that we now have, if not the will of their mean constitutions, the fruit of their righteous spirits at hand. We’re all pirates of sorts.