Friday, April 18, 2014

Fins in Electric Water



Fins in electric water



Find me, how in the hell do they



Find me, how in the hell do they



Do what they do?







But they do.



Find me, that is.







Paper trailing from my wounds



And pockets, protracted investments



That smell of pulp, of worth.



The fins stooping in landfills



Puzzling out the ideal combo,



Gathering it in their bloodhound noses



Like chum to fins, then fins to chums.







It is all so very interesting,



Arresting like their balletic eyes,



Eyes armed with rawhide catchpoles



As they chew my hands and heart



In the tinniest off-dark.







Calling it in is no easy task;



We hate them for it, hate them all,



But were it not for what they do,



We might not be here with our



Air-conditioning and power steering,



Fair conditions and racketeering.







O ye fins in electric water,



And sometimes seas of paper too:

How is it you do just what you do?

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