Fishes wear astronaut helmets
to breathe billabong songs.
Clownfish aspirations are open
to the shape of rise and fall,
the perimeter of a gargled all.
Lungs squeeze out the c and the 2,
extracting oxygen to propel their hoot.
They swim through toll gates
and pay with coins of fishskin.
Fishskin collected from bank robbers,
where gas masks covered identity
from the ocean's watchful ears.
Passing party-boats pullute soda-floats
into a dance the land-light sashays.
Hyphens break fish currency into sand,
and cut knotches into the knuckles of Watcher's hand.
And, of course, the tiny bacteriaz,
the razored spine of the merchants economy.
The sifters of paper cuts and bills with stoic noses,
their notorious brows,
their green reaking birthright.
They'll not contain coffins after the sale,
they'll not sink condoning belly rubbing,
but float to mope in the seafoam. There,
to be picked to rations by communist birds.
After, the peckers nose dive
with talons thumb tacked through stationary
to mail the bacterias notice of resignation
to the Atlantic Office of Federal Rummaging (AOFR),
where a top floor position will soon open
to the likes of seagulls
and other surface dwellers.
love,
Fishbot
This is me btw.
