I'm On An Island

The heroes assemble

at the water's edge

to journey west

across the water

to the island

of angry 

inky

clouds

that mock 

newborn spring.

Scaught takes something

that pulls backward

on synapses

with opiate gravity.

He sets up his tripod

burns his offerings

and talks to Pallas Athena

in Fayetteville

while the sour faces

of commuters 

chase another useless

weakened.

Who's your hero?

Aison.

Whaddanass

Whadda

ultrarube.

Yep.

Probably.

But aren't we all

a bit 

high n low

and Pallas 

is getting 

the high version

of Scaught.

High five.

Sorta.

Mind yer manners, Scaught

when you're summoning

the goddess

n she's coming onto 

a righteous

headcold.

Disembarking on the island

the heroes 

wait for the artiste

to materialise

at the olde 

new and fake

seafaring pub.

See fair?

Oh shit.

It's time to trudge 

through thick smudgy

fog

to the monied gallery

where they ran outta red

n poured only white.

Wotissit

with baby booming bourgeois

and white whine?

Scaught catches up

with Johnno

n something else

that whispers

blinking electricity

into those

fish tank synapses.

Countermand 

the previous order 

to dive

midshipman

n prepare to surface.

Our kid

the artiste

is walking 

all over 

the vanity patrons

n counterfeiters

hawking their wares.

Jewelry like seafoam.

Hibernian cloisenets 

caught in crossections

of seagrass

and bull rushes.

She moved a pair of earrings

for five hundred bucks.

Pretty good gig, eh?

Yeah,

Now be a good socialist

n buy the heroes a round

it's a long way 

back to 

the little fishing village

that could.