So stupid,

caught on this line again.

Damn you with your

wriggling bait,

deliciously pink and green

like we living, shimmering things,

damn you!

Maybe, after all,

I should give in, since you catch me

daily, and I always fall for it.

Let me slide through my

world very slowly as you reel me in,

gently, dispassionately;


gliding and twirling with your line,

feeling only the slightest twinge

of your hook in my mouth,

as I relish the last few moments

of slimy green and bitter cool

skimming across my scales,

flicking them up ever so slightly,

oh, FUCK this!

I felt you pulling, I can feel

your incessant tugging

foraging my nerves,

is that even muffled laughter

I hear through the waves?

Perhaps this will make you laugh:

I am swimming madly down,

my powerful tail negating my slender arms,

and you are letting out your line,

and adrenaline is rushing through

your veins for the fight,

but I stop and swim back toward you,

I can feel your ecstatic reeling,



and I leap, high,

and watch your mouth drop

and your eyes desire,

as my dripping hair flips over

and I arch my back

breasts perched in sunlight,

blinding plates of sea monster madness.

My eyes almost kill you,

you almost die,

but not yet.

Now I am back in my wilderness,

shooting toward your pathetic vessel,

like Moby,

or the Thin Man,

and you are overturned!

I watch your belongings sink in slow motion

and I watch your arms flail,

and just before you reach the surface,

I drag you to the depths in my jaws.

20 thoughts on “offshore

  1. I wonder what my trout-fishing/writing grandfather would have thought of “offshore.” I thought it was great.

Love you, too

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