In Which I Beg To The Holy Trident To Not Be Turned Into Algae
My blurred eyes look up at nothing.
Only blue.
Fingers clutching mud, as I choke.
Choke up a wail.
Think this high-pitched emphasis is my last word.
I have fallen too deep.
Where the sea is lonely but plentiful.
Only blue nothingness.
Where the pressure grabs me from the thorax and spine.
Flaccid gills.
Seizing fins.
Guess I’m less than I ever imagined.
Oh, Holy Trident !
Teach me a lesson in self-discipline.
Fizzy brain, clogged nasal,
Ribs going to collapse,
like the puffer fish when hit with bravery.
Don’t think I’m consuming any O.
Am I in a bowl?
(illegal in Sweden, Rome, and Britain)
My face has passed rouge; viola
– straight up bianca.
Does drowning make my death stupid?
Fuck, they are going to revoke my fish-license,
make me algae in the next life, aren’t they?