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waiting on a boat
| Open Poetry #26 |
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waiting on a boat |
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Drexler_McStyles Member
since 2002-11-18
Posts 195Venice, Ca |
waiting on the boat in the courtyard, dead banana trees lie rotting against the weathered tile, the morning was raw and the sky was strewn with ash stained clouds, occasionally dropping their pittances onto the path leading towards the docks. I made my way slowly, languidly. There was no hurry. I was leaving Tangiers for the European mainland and a sense of dread accompanied the thought of it. Tangier had been good to me, all the horror stories and whining from the jet set hadn’t prepare me for the solitude and mysterioso’s that curved around every turn of any tangled walkway I’d investigated. Id loitered where Burroughs and Bowles had, smoked the kif and been charmed by cobras and sultry hips with all the bells and whistles, burned a little opium for the sake of the continental drift ……anyhow, I was corralled in the waiting stables along with at least a thousand moroccans and other assorted rift raff, patiently awaiting a stamp on my passport so I could continue along to the ship……. I only mention this story because it is 20 after five, in the AM, and Ive been up for the good end of an hour. The neighbors have a concert going during one of their annual cocaine festivals. I can hear the razor hitting the glass, just as the eager fingered hands strike the chords and plow through all the songs Ive still forgotten. Eventually I turn on a light, spark a bowl and find the ruins of my last cocktail. no one is keeping a journal of my activities or a record of my hours of operation…. only I know all the lonely things my hands have done….but back in Morocco.. I must share a memory, something from the day I was leaving….I had routed my way through the mob of locals crossing over for their daily chore there in Algecirias. Some were heading off to their slave wage, some were smuggling hash against their bellies, sweating more bullet than even the customs agents who had no fan to speak of, others were backpackers like myself, passing on to the next spot in the guide book. This one group of foreign idiots seemed to know what they were doing and I trailed after them, right up to the glass box where they kept the despots with the desired ink. While the gringos were trying to make a priority of themselves my eyes washed over the scene, there was a young guy standing to my right, I can only think that it was a nonsmoking facility and that he had been ordered to put out his cigarette or more than likely asked to finish it up…well, this guy was drawing on his stick at a rate of cardiac arrest, his dark complexion was taking on the look of the clouds, and I watched him burn that cigarette down like a fuse on a firecracker, his eyes had gone to hell and were now returning with the proof, I waited for his head to explode, he was sucking so hard that the ashes didn’t fall, he had disrupted gravity, they just coiled like a seahorse, I couldn’t bare to look, but I dared not look away….then suddenly the spell was broken, someone from the window called out to me, it was my turn…I answered the quizzical glances and paid the toll for my blue stamp, it sat well with the others.…I don’t know if the kid with the cigarette died of lung disaster or what happened, but it set me into motion on a emotional scrapbook of my Tangier escapades….and for some reason it all came clearly this morning, as the birds chirp and I lower the Dylan for the sake of nature. Some pour coffee, but I pour the vodka with at least a little juice, waiting for my weary reminder that soundly grounded people don’t behave as I do….but as I said before, no one is keeping track, or pace, or records, of these things that I do….these things that I share with you…. [This message has been edited by Drexler_McStyles (05-11-2003 01:11 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2003 Steven Doherty - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Kahlil Senior Member
since 2003-04-12
Posts 1881 |
I thoroughly enjoy your style, and so love the word play woven throughout...I just want to read it again and again.... |
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icebox Member Elite
since 2003-05-03
Posts 4383in the shadows |
I apologise ahead of time for this; I have never done this to another's work, without being asked, but this is a grand wild horse which can be ridden and still not broken, for example: Waiting on the boat in the courtyard, dead banana trees lie rotting against the weathered tile, the morning was raw the sky was strewn with ash stained clouds, occasionally dropping their minor pittances onto the path leading towards the docks. I made my way slowly, languidly. There was no hurry. I was leaving Tangiers for the European mainland a sense of dread accompanied the thought of it. Tangier had been good to me, all the horror stories and whining from the jet set hadn't prepared me for the solitude the mysterioso's that curved around every turn of any tangled walkway I'd investigated... I'd loitered where Burroughs and Bowles had, smoked the kif and been charmed by cobras and sultry hips with all the bells and whistles, burned a little opium for the sake of the continental drift... ... anyhow, I was corralled in the waiting stables along with at least a thousand Moroccans and other assorted riffraff, patiently awaiting a stamp on my passport so I could continue along to the ship……. I only mention this story because it is 20 after five, in the AM, and I've been up for the good end of an hour. The neighbors have a concert going during one of their annual cocaine festivals. I can hear the razor hitting the glass, just as the eager fingered hands strike the chords and plow through all the songs I've still forgotten. Eventually I turn on a light, spark a bowl find the ruins of my last cocktail. No one is keeping a journal of my activities or a record of my hours of operation... Only I know all the lonely things my hands have done... but back in Morocco... I must share a memory, something from the day I was leaving... I had routed my way through the mob of locals crossing over for their daily chore there in Algecirias. Some were heading off to their slave wage, some were smuggling hash against their bellies, sweating more bullets than the customs agents who had no fan to speak of, others were backpackers like myself, passing on to the next spot in the guide book. This one group of foreign idiots seemed to know what they were doing and I trailed after them, right up to the glass box where they kept the employees and the desired ink. While the gringos were trying to make a priority of themselves my eyes washed over the scene, there was a young guy standing to my right, I can only think that it was a nonsmoking facility that he had been ordered to put out his cigarette or more than likely asked to finish it up… Well, this guy was drawing on his stick at a rate of cardiac arrest, his dark complexion was taking on the look of the clouds; I watched him burn that cigarette down like a fuse on a firecracker, his eyes had gone to hell and were now returning with the proof. I waited for his head to explode, he was sucking so hard that the ashes didn't fall; he had disrupted gravity, they just coiled like a seahorse. I couldn't bare to look, dared not look away... then suddenly the spell was broken. Someone from the window called out to me, it was my turn... I answered the quizzical glances paid the toll for my blue stamp, it sat well with the others... I don't know if the kid with the cigarette died of lung disaster or what happened, but it set me into motion on a emotional scrapbook of my Tangier escapades... and for some reason it all came clearly this morning, as the birds chirp and I lower the Dylan for the sake of nature. Some pour coffee, but I pour the vodka with at least a little juice, waiting for my weary reminder that soundly grounded people don't behave as I do... but as I said before, no one is keeping track, or pace, or records, of these things that I do... these things that I share with you.... |
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Seymour Tabin Member Empyrean
since 1999-07-07
Posts 31720Tamarac Fla |
Drexler, Interesting write, enjoyed the read. |
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Midnitesun
since 2001-05-18
Posts 28647Gaia |
Loved this travel tale.  I'm keeping it safe in the journal of you. |
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