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Swimming with bow legged Women

Sometimes, when possessed by a craving for an ornate day
my very thinking becomes florid, cursive, prone to rolling my
vowels – dotting my little I’s with a love heart, like an idiot who
rows out in a storm. Other days I am like Captain Quint , and I
give a toast to swimming with bow legged women;

and I am invincible, damn near preternatural, right up until
circumstance with its big fucking teeth tears me in half.

I knew a brilliant philosopher once, circumstance led me to
him. His thinking was molten, unstoppable – until one day
he was found in a cupboard, rocking, punching his own nose
to pulp.

Tragically he has never recovered.

Then Captain Quint comes in and I am pretty damn certain
that I can weather any intellectual storm, and sometimes I see
through the illusion, if just for a minute, at least long enough
to ascertain that doing anything at all is pretty pointless.

Some people are sharks, all you need is a good disaster to
demonstrate this, calculating, solitary unless wanting to mate,
cold, two faced when starving, soulless yet mesmerizing,
unstoppable when goaded for blood. Others are like lions,
svelte, not nearly as loathsome as their counterparts of the
sea, but still to be avoided as they only see you as meat.

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