Canal Worker

Twisted in strange directions, along a canal three leaves and thirteen leagues deep and three hundred thousand miles gone too long. The water flows ashen, liquid coco and caramel light, its unctuous turns and bridges hypnotise. Rolling and skimming across the water ways, the very epitome of a misunderstanding cranes its neck toward the swallow white and orange hull of a U boat ship. The water squirrels stick to the barrels of the swift returning wheels of soft metal and sponge. They churn down the water ways upon a spluttered breath and stupid mind unsure where the way flows and the water cascades from. Mountains and great rivers are lost to the foolish sailer. He knows not of nature and its gargantuan beauty. He sees the mind of man on each scale alone each day. His metropolis is rife with opinion and imitation of nature. It is confused in its construction, but the sailor trusts breath. And so he puffs his way down the skin with no steam and an eased crest wave broaching from his sails and shafts. Snails silver winds deep into the brown exotics he currents upon a swish of palm and under water wave refraction. There is only abstraction at the depths of his drive. It is perverse in its drawing mystery. Hail its power, forget it with passion; little can be known of flowing water in a body canal for it always is in flux change never similar even, from today to yesterday. Smiles on light beams, nature encroaches a grow in sticky heat and pollen breeze, are ignorant to the very matter of this perversion. Blue and green bile threatens to puss from the sailor’s sinking heart, but the red currents beneath the skin are thick - never with wisdom, only momentum. Currents upon currents, folding onto the centre, define a summer of crazed travel and haphazard exploration. With impending dark nights, all is ashen with the deep for memories unable to grasp. This is called love.