The Mermaids

The spell is a mouth’s perilous-o as they dark circle the boats in their most resplendent pliable armor. The concept fish aligning with girl or love with death to bring down men at sea,temptation confused into offering, the mismatch of like plus unlike really likes, straight to rock bottom. No equation has ever been this badass. It’s the men who will enter the spell so far into exhaustion as weather, as waves, the tide pulling toward if, letting go then over the whale road in the company of the dolphin, the only other animal, I’m told, who can do it solely for pleasure. It. You know what I mean. The lower half aglitter, the top half brainy as beautiful is sometimes, murderous lovelies, their plotting and resolve and why not get these guys good, the lechers. To see at all in the whirling, to hear what anyone might in wind roar and faint whistle — don’t worry about girls shrewd as whimsy, legend-tough to the core. Don’t. But it’s their spell too, isn’t it? Locked there. Aligned with singing, dazzle razor-blackened green. Not that they miss what human is like or know any end to waters half born to, from where they look up. Men in boats, so sick of the journey. Men gone stupid with blue, with vast, with gazing over and away the whole time until same to same-old to now they’re mean. After that, small. Out there, the expanse. In here, the expanse. The men look down. Aching misalignment — gorgeous lure that hides its hook steely sweet to o my god, little fool’s breath triumphant, all the way under and am I not deserving?