On the Impossible Occasion When William Shakespeare went Skinny Dipping with Young Ernest Hemingway in 1937 Revolutionary Spain

This is a good place 
to camp Will, why are
you complaining?
I heard the Owl scream,
and the Crickets cry!
Well, the best liquor
to your health my friend
is caught in Spain
from a skin or from 
a flask—it makes me 
think of my little rabbit.
It is because of times
such as these we always
lived in these times
and she was always 
mine. Marry ’tis true! 
And marry is’t 
’tis true!  It is a fair
thought to lie between 
maids’ legs. Ha! Ha! Will
you’re drunk too. Fuck!
To hell with this bottle
of harbor scum. 
It would dissolve
a dead bull’s balls. Will—
Nothing’s been the same
since December 6th. 
Dad shot himself.  For sale:
young writer, no buyers— i’faith! 
tomorrow, and tomorrow,
and tomorrow creeps—
signifying nothing. List! List! 
O list! Remember, nothing comes—
And what Will?! And what?!
Are you fair? Should I despair?
Should I for a pair of kisses,
lick the floor, pinch a publisher’s
cheek? Call him my mouse?
Make him give out that 
I’ll crawl on the floor
and unpack my heart 
like a whore with words?
Is’t not monstrous?
‘Swounds! These words leap 
like marlin blue—wandering
waters jeweled, vaulting
o’er like Old Faithful.
Damn!
I’m talking like you Stratford
bastard! Fie on’t! Foh!
Howl! No! No! No! No! No! No! 
The ripeness is all, Ernest.
Will. Are you paying attention?
That’s what we do. We see
the pale ghost of a father,
fasting in fires,
until foul crimes are burnt
and purged away—he
smells like crisping boar flesh
on safari in Tanzania over a roaring
spit turning, the fat trailing and burning
the combined hairs of your forearm.
Yes, I ate my father last year Will,
I ate him at Kilimanjaro. 
And being married 
has always
made me thirsty—
gives me the lie as deep as
to my throat, my throat. 
When they bless our throats 
on St. Blaise’s Day I beg
for death. The small beers do it
every day. I’m confess an allergy
to cats, I’m allergic to women.
Will. Do you understand?
We have heard the chimes
at midnight, Master Hemingway.
Shall we repair thither to see
the rising of the sun from the sea?
For by my fay, I cannot reason.
Taken all in all, we shall sink
our fiery minds in the ease
of the raging salt tempest
beats the contracted brow 
of land declaring yea and nay
again—and swim free men.
Say you? Nay, pray you!
Mark me kind and worthy pioneer!
Will, I will follow down 
the hill into the water.  
Into the water,
where we will remove
our clothes. Then begin
to float. And float.  
My rabbit is on the shore 
crying out—Will—
will you sing songs for her?
For by my fay, I can no longer now.