In Search of Moby Dick

There’s a cyclone
Churning in my loins
Twisting coils
Of ragged edges
Whiplashing tails of meteorites
That house cataclysmic tendrils of bleeding desire
Threshing
Gusting
Broiling
Intertwining
Gasping to be spent.
There’s an eye in this tropical strom
Far from calm
Moist with unrequitted passion
Overladen with pregnant excitement
Sodden with rigid anticipation
Roving
Hunting
Mooning
Dilating
Blinking in despair

There must be an island
Desirous and ripe
Wailing for some storm lashing
From some Renegade cyclone,
Prepared to throw all caution to the wind

And when I depart
There’ll be shutters un-shut
Leashing unleashed
Weightings unweighed
Screens unscreened
Shelters unsheltered
Clothing unclothed
Don’ts done
For in our love throes
There has to be certain death
For me
While you
Repair and pine for another ravaging.