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Hit it hard. A simple request. First time?

Charging batteries at night off the Great


Thatch. We were both filthy with diesel grime,

crude oil, acid flashbacks. We had to wait.


We sat up top. We passed the zigga back

and fro; enthralled with each Uncanny Queen –


Sappho’s term for starlight. Waves made low thwack

-lap noise in the dark. You made low obscene


noise, too. Smut puppet. Slush galore. A tongue

curling you up. Translucent trails all glow


in the waves. Surge dripped from your thighs. Hit it

hard. You clung to the sub’s drunk hull. I clung


to your soused conch. Writhing wraiths. Purge and blow

while Saint Elmo’s Fire played across your clit.



It would be grand to run away to sea in a submarine built for two (plus cats). Great Thatch is a derelict of an island, part of the British Virgins in the Caribbean. It’s named after Edward Teach (the pirate called Blackbeard). St. Elmo’s Fire appears as blue lightning, all squirm-dazzle in the rigging of tall masted ships, heralding an approaching storm.