The Siren’s Serpent Song

After a solo, untragic four hour maiden sail south the moonlit one-o-one, I arrived in a city where my virgin ears, no less than one full moon turned, had been exposed for the first time to the siren’s tantalizing tentacles of serpent song, as if eight separately teasing tongues whipped and lashed my inner lobe, stinging my ears till they upset the wax, a voice tickling with its melodic feathers at the most base nerves of my brain’s formidable stem, and splitting, at last, by the ends like strands of ove’grown hair, the siren’s serpent song, where soon thereafter loosely threaded moments were yanked against better judgement into spans of a lifetime, and I would experience the paralyzing weight of that sinking lead silence of hers, of theirs, of the all too few serpent sirens who at once do not belong here, and yet in harmony come to drag me home, along with anyone else in their path, to another world beyond, a world so far under the sea that we’ve all entered back into space. I was hooked…

And so naturally my first order of business as Captain Vanagon was to dock in Los Angeles and retrieve one shapeshifter-eyed split-tongued songstress on her way to Austin, traveled by way of Brooklyn, and from east the Baltic, and from deep the scorched juniper fields of unrecorded Mars, and from one of a former pluto’s self-defeating folds, and more likely still, immaculately conceived, gestated and manifested warm from deep my Id with love, bathed in golden Ego showers, and brought to term with hyperbolic life when driven by my Super-egomaniacal, diabolic mind.

Once I had her locked away, safely stowed, chained to the passenger’s hull by invisible shackles of her own devising, we drifted on, waving gently with pride like regals through what I imagined an octagonal oceanic stained glass windshield lit dill in greenish-pearlful sun (the only detail needing embellishment had me chopping and reassembling a four-sided, rectangle porthole to make my eight-side, bug-eye periscope). Was here I made a point to bend—would bend like limber, would sing like wind—as to her every whim.

The siren and I made it only so far as Venice that first night, as she had but one apparent weakness, one not unlike my own— would be the wickedly charming sounds unwound a bar performer’s fluted, fluttered song to leave her dancing, leave her reeling, leave her sopping every drop of spirits till one by one their starry-eyed advances brought her oh so briefly to a maiden’s stranger arms, and later then, a driver’s foreign hand, before I took her willing, and positioned her mostly lifeless form, contorted, on a parked backseat bench. Upright and tilted, sea sick or drunk, we gave our best attempt at sleep.

What I hadn’t noticed, and wouldn’t notice for some time, was that a transition was taking place in her. Overnight we had parked not right—no, not right at all—but inclined near forty-five degrees, thus depriving ourselves of sleep. The angle would have us relentlessly shuffling through positions that would never interlock like glitched Tetris blocks, the lack of rest would damn us to future delirium. All night our heads spun recklessly like globes in hands of a geographically-delinquent child, till the bright, warm blind seeped upon our wayward cabin and ripped thin sheets of sleep off bloodshot, twitching eyes—

Drank black coffee; squinted through a sobering morning sun; went south and east to get South by West; sat ‘longside a radiant creature who batted cobalt eyes, and thought, there’s no reason for her to be restrained—let me set free the girl, I thought; but unleash the beast, I did instead; let loose a fox of Were, I would later find, with van parked on a donut dirt bike track the Werefox hypnotized me into believing that we made love, that we fell this time in numerous positions locked in one, that the whole time we had been working our jigsaw bodies border first and now the final, phallic piece was ready to be slid effortlessly into place, that we had been reshaped, us two, beneath an oozing blood orange moon, a humongous, bittersweet but juicy fruit, where I was brought to bed, picked and robbed my self, by the harvest moon and its furry naked friend. I was spellbound.