It’s Eurovision! Time to get drunk and watch people singing strange, bad songs!
So, you decide to sink,
silt-blessed. Let water wash
your arms, your lungs.
Your breaths are sand,
alveoli caverns for protozoa.
So, in turn, your legs become spars,
your clothes sail-cloth moved by tides.
Your bones will be coral, branched,
picked white, a driftwood not flung up.
So your hair is seaweed, played in,
a forest for fish. Your hands are starfish,
your eyes anemones starting out,
swollen by the wash of waves. So
this is your death. You chose beauty,
a shipwreck under sea. You chose
to be a home for tendrilled life.
A whale-road place, a seafarer’s return.
Conversely, there is this.
You are a wreck. No more.
A secret to be found out by hands,
A bloated thing, a half-graved corpse.
You are the worst day in someone’s life,
a sea of grief, a reservoir.
You are the dirty job, short-strawed,
failing in a diver’s hands.
The putrid, swollen nightmare.
You are a waste, a wastrel thing.
Your eyes are saps for silt,
your mouth a vortex gaping wide.
All your thoughts turned in and stopped.
You are a passing pity.
So this is it. Your life no more.
A fleeting forgotten thing,
turned into an abyss.
What got me on a George Maharis kick tonight:
Night Gallery episode “The Hand of Borgus Weems”, 1971
I’m feeling eclectic tonight. Have a little Miss Kitty being hot and Matt Dillon also being very hot.
The stillness now is this.
A time to lie, proterozoic,
a silt-pressed cell, waiting for
oxygen to gather, waiting
for life to push its redness into rock.
Something will spring itself to life,
grasping air and breathing in
and laying down the frame for
a fossil future. Later
I will curl, an ammonite,
thankful for the warmth,
and things will come of this
in shallow seas.
Later I will unfold
into a long-limbed creature,
a sharpened mind, to
hands with jointed fingers,
pointing tools, to a mouth and tongue
and forward looking eyes.
Later I will rise.