The latest corpus of addiction
to swim in an acidic ocean
where time is relevant
and then not. Wired up
like a Crystal Set radiating
radio waves as if transmission
from an offshore boat
would broadcast eternally
as the body rusts away.
The anchor is overloaded.
I feel it tugging like a whale
hooked and held accountable.
But that is not me.
I am Crimson in this body
and no confinement prevents
sound from spreading evenly
though the hull lists terminally
towards a shore I shall soon visit.
Great. Frightening. Wonderful. Hopeful. The other shore, I'm told, is a beautiful place.
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