Beached upon unfamiliar land,
an evolutionary history repeats itself unexpectedly.
You can hear the popping of air made by the worms beneath the sand,
as they carve their miniature homes.
And the trickling water that embodies the vast stretch,
a landscape forever adapting.
A bacterial soupy blend we call the ocean,
transformed into a chemical abyss.
The beach is a place for leisure it seems.
Sandy replicas to feed the longing for an uncluttered horizon,
masking what hides beneath a salty pavement.
One day, this place will become the ocean,
washing away the sandcastles we once so carefully sculpted.
We are forever reminded of the sea,
from every rainfall, through every drainpipe.
They drag into ocean currents to be washed into blissful ignorance.
Emerged to be once again be submerged,
we must exist amongst hybridity.
To survive this fluid force.
What is fictional becomes reality,
and what is reality becomes fictional.
But there's no such thing as an ideal habitat,
it's always in flux and i'm always adapting.
It's cooler in the air now,
the wind blows against my silvery skin.
With guts full of plastic, i sit and watch.
Hollow bodies like sea caves absorb the waters,
filtering the saltwater between a bony structure.
Vessels cling to bones like seaweed grows on rocks.
This hollow head of mine sings with the sea breeze,
like lungs provide oxygen.
A wilderness explored,
no submarine could feel the waves like skin does.
To watch it wrinkle and warp,
like the curvature of the sand.
The sea is like some high tech world,
waves of information.
Like the inner workings of bodies as they move,
like brain waves.
I look through to glassy innards of seaside spaces,
they are all sea blue!
My reflection, also blue.
I really am fishing,
fishing for ,myself.
I choose instead to float on this continent,
this grassy patch of land.
A golf course is now my private beach,
carved to clinical perfection.
A strict survival mechanism.
I replicate the tidal patterns,
like the sea gifts to its beaches.
A miniature stylised garden,
carefully composed and un-eroded.
The concrete appears intangible,
a solidified fluidity.
I must find a way to swim.
Perhaps a chlorinated pool,
an enlarged fish tank.
Operated the in-between,
landscapes flash past me,
and i lose sight of the horizon.
These meeting landscapes speak of a more than human world,
of what has been born,
and what has been discarded.
A full cycle,
on rinse and repeat.
I'm left sat to dry,
in my new-found habitat.
an evolutionary history repeats itself unexpectedly.
You can hear the popping of air made by the worms beneath the sand,
as they carve their miniature homes.
And the trickling water that embodies the vast stretch,
a landscape forever adapting.
A bacterial soupy blend we call the ocean,
transformed into a chemical abyss.
The beach is a place for leisure it seems.
Sandy replicas to feed the longing for an uncluttered horizon,
masking what hides beneath a salty pavement.
One day, this place will become the ocean,
washing away the sandcastles we once so carefully sculpted.
We are forever reminded of the sea,
from every rainfall, through every drainpipe.
They drag into ocean currents to be washed into blissful ignorance.
Emerged to be once again be submerged,
we must exist amongst hybridity.
To survive this fluid force.
What is fictional becomes reality,
and what is reality becomes fictional.
But there's no such thing as an ideal habitat,
it's always in flux and i'm always adapting.
It's cooler in the air now,
the wind blows against my silvery skin.
With guts full of plastic, i sit and watch.
Hollow bodies like sea caves absorb the waters,
filtering the saltwater between a bony structure.
Vessels cling to bones like seaweed grows on rocks.
This hollow head of mine sings with the sea breeze,
like lungs provide oxygen.
A wilderness explored,
no submarine could feel the waves like skin does.
To watch it wrinkle and warp,
like the curvature of the sand.
The sea is like some high tech world,
waves of information.
Like the inner workings of bodies as they move,
like brain waves.
I look through to glassy innards of seaside spaces,
they are all sea blue!
My reflection, also blue.
I really am fishing,
fishing for ,myself.
I choose instead to float on this continent,
this grassy patch of land.
A golf course is now my private beach,
carved to clinical perfection.
A strict survival mechanism.
I replicate the tidal patterns,
like the sea gifts to its beaches.
A miniature stylised garden,
carefully composed and un-eroded.
The concrete appears intangible,
a solidified fluidity.
I must find a way to swim.
Perhaps a chlorinated pool,
an enlarged fish tank.
Operated the in-between,
landscapes flash past me,
and i lose sight of the horizon.
These meeting landscapes speak of a more than human world,
of what has been born,
and what has been discarded.
A full cycle,
on rinse and repeat.
I'm left sat to dry,
in my new-found habitat.
