The Island
You can imagine I was pretty well freaked-out, for having written this poem on September, 10th, 2001
The Island
We are detecting to the shore,
but not a meter deeper in.
The island is a jungle end-to-end.
The beach is white and thin.There is a reef to bar the ship.
The surf’s too rough to let a boat
approach the castle. We are held
at bay, outside the moat.An air-strike seems the only way.
But it will be another hour
before the enemy acquires a name
and shows us all his power.10 September, 2001
poetry | 911
October 7th, 2006 at 7:00 am
[…] You are single. You are marooned on a deserted island alone with an extremely attractive person of the opposite sex. You do not know when or even if you will ever be rescued. You have only the wet clothes on your backs, but the island has enough food and water to sustain you both indefinitely. You had never met the person with whom you are shipwrecked before today, but you find that they are sexually irresistible to you. The feeling is mutual. As you are reaching for each other passionately, the other person says “I’m positive… but here’s what I think. Who knows how long we are going to be stranded here. We might both spend the rest of our lives here. There are no condoms on the island. We can either resist what we feel to protect you from what’s inside me, or we can give in to the inescapable, right now and have what will probably be the greatest sex of our lives. Then we’ll spear some fish in the lagoon, eat mangoes, fuck some more… every day for as long as we’ve got here. Of course the possibility exists we could be rescued, in which case you would run the risk of returning to your old life with a new plague.” […]