There’s not much light here in the deep sea,
where we raise particles of dust
in spite of a lazy undulating motion;
mysterious translucent membranes
and our eerie luminescence.
Underwater vents warm us for a while
and are a fireplace in a desert’s night
where we find both food and society,
which go hand in hand,
and mouth on mouth.
It’s all calm, and night after night goes by
here in life’s deep end.
But we’ll end by looking up, we always do,
the intriguing sky from where carcasses fall:
an headless whale, the head of a dolphin,
and a tentacleless cuttlefish--
to what are its tentacles clinging?
Divine sashimi! An offer from the gods above!
And, upon close examination, only decay.
Bodies and our desires went upwards,
from black to deep blue, from green to azure,
gods ourselves for the first time,
investigating mirth and tragedies,
old acts in a new scenario.
What strange creatures, whales.
Upon interview they said to be cows who,
tired of false promises of sacredness,
returned to the sea: "Better a blowhole
than hold our breath for a blowjob."
Dolphins, no matter how cute,
were engaged in atrocities too, chasing,
hurling themselves against their infants,
or the ever dreamy porpoise, on purpose.
We're yet to meet bigger blowholes!
And cuttlefish? They're a Mafia.
Their short tentacles have an amazing reach,
as they use their ink to write and rule.
If pressed, they'll release a batch,
to hide with a stain what they're writing.
Foam distorted the image of trees on the shore,
waves made mountains seem to jerk,
as if inebriated by their own oxygen scarcity,
and so rocked we were in a daze
until night set in and calmed us down.
And thus floating we could have been found,
were it not for a Blood Moon that woke us up,
which we took for a symbol of what happens
when whales are hunted, dolphins adored,
and cuttlefish left alone to confuse us.
We sank back to the deep end, our gloom,
but under another moon we might emerge again.
_______
photo by John W. Johnson
