Original master of bottled overblown ownership, around a flogging frame of masculinity, tone more reflective than any of your own, your a master, someone who takes the wheel, the navigator, russel crowe at his finest, with a head heald toward the mist of sea you take glee in knowing your place, your status, your finest hour, punishment, corporal, minsitster, sinister, your enemies fear you, your colleagues believe in you, won’t you take on another cruise ship, take on another fluke? Nothing is quite in danger, yet it is always looming right in front of you, the danger, the edge of the world, beckoning, its black marvel is a hole in the sea, and you will swirl around its edges, knowing nothing but the night, the cold, the winter, the old man with the mop in hand warns of omens, and the crew complies because they listen, they are wise,

Hold down your anchor! The end is approaching!  you know what they came for, they want you intact, whole, at the core, a piece that they can rivet, take away, reach down to the center and feel the pulp at the fingertips, pull it out and hold it towards the wind, its our apple, bite into it again