Blood Cellular Transmisssions To A 'Velvet Nymph'

I'm a landlubber, Skyhawk!
Satellite! Avast ye, satellite!
We disconnected before connection!
Nephelococcygia has always been a science  
     for drowning pirates.
But what are sinking vesselmen to do?
 Siphon the marine tank?
  Put the fuel oil into a decanter?
   Add these words, crumpled,
stuffed down the bottle mouth?
      Into the neck?
Light it?
Throw it towards the first black osprey
            tufted fabric rose
                of liquid crystals  
                      seen in the sky?
 
 
Will your terrestrial orbitation pick up my rapid oxidation
                                                    combustion?
          
            
                   Are burning words reverberant?  
 
 
 
I could outline the nebulous haze of your fair countenance  
                                with my cutlass
                                      and wait...
 
 
Friday, the cannibal, was a servant of a castaway.
And now I am a slave to Friday...
 
My veins are wires!
Master man Friday, bleed me!
Her velvet feathers await!
The attar, that olfactory chemical trail;
fragrance screeching in the sky as
her sharpness slices through the air,  
      through the flesh of deep sea marauders,
            as the ghosts of sunken ships raise their flags,  
                  the 'convicted heir' finds evil is desire!