The Bermuda Triangle is not what anyone thinks. We touched each other until we had exhausted our bodily resources, too spent to move. Feeling we were something between athletes and addicts. Stretching and rubbing my aching calves and spine, I let him catch me eyeing his nakedness. We watch the the water outside of our porthole baptizing itself to forever nowhere. I miss the birds.
We had to kill one passenger to ensure we had our way. There was complete cooperation after I pushed my thumb into that powerful little button, the brain of the destruction, the detonator. It was an ugly little joke but now we have our infinite holiday. The two of us can enjoy a record or 30 in the ballroom whenever we like.
The last time we ate L.S.D. we turned on all of the party lights and smoke machines. The bass was so loud that we laughed about all of the whales discovering rap and writing hip hop songs. I am positive that we've covered every inch of this cruise ship's floor in dance steps.
We played King of the Mountain on the heap of wooden supply crates that dominated the back left corner of the room to determine who would choose our bottled poison. Champagne? No, stouts! Nooo, champagne! When we finished the bottles we loaded them into the pitching machine in the batting cage. You gouged out all my splinters, the ones pushed into my soft surfaces during our desperately hilarious game. You cracked up when I squeaked but kissed the places where the cruel remnants of wood had burrowed in.
Our list was quite specific and lengthy:
fuel, canned peaches, cases and cases of port, tequila and bourbon, seeds, light bulbs, tools, books, my favorite scent. . . And of course The Good Sir Reinhardt on vinyl.
We couldn't forget a thing. This rider was our only bargain.
We launched one hostage laden life boat for every cargo crate dropped on our deck. The helicopter propellers abused everyone's hair indiscriminately. 618 passengers, 551 crew members and 35 children knelt, faces to the sky. Those chopper pilots must have felt like Christ returning.
The explosives were still firmly strapped to 20 lucky volunteers when their life boats were lowered into the sea. This was our insurance policy on a clean getaway, that and an immaculate long range signal. We clutched the remotes as the toy boats rowed haltingly away. I know by now that my bombs are in pieces, but I fancy imagining them ticking out there in the water like James Hook's crocodile.
There is nothing more beautifully appealing to the intrinsic senses than the skies here. The sun's reach bursting from the ocean and dipping away, towing a blanket of stars overhead to tuck us in. The crystal orbs glowing like our love, already dead to time but visible to the world for centuries after. We spray-painted a portrait of D.B. Cooper onto the outside of the smoke stack and lay close on the deck worshiping each other's bodies and looking into heaven as we vanish.
released September 3, 2016
Recorded Live July 2nd 2016
Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Ian Fursa
Produced by Ian Fursa and Josh Aptner
Produced by Deviant Philly X Meraki Multimedia
Art by Seth Aaron Jones and Jonifin Marvin
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