Sunday, July 30, 2006

Spawn

I swim upriver with the hook deeply embedded in my cheek.
All manner of occult lures do tempt my eye; all manner of angler.
And guilt shines bright on my scales; the water in my soul bent heavenward when the moon pulls hard.
That which I scratch on the riverbed green, I hold to be honest and straight as the line that holds me on course to the end of the rod.

I swim upriver to spawn my dying breath
I dream the world devoid of games and of the manners that bind.
I live in the hope of jumping free from the hook and heading out to sea; away from the land and its lack of up and down; its limited room for manoeuvring.
For though I swam with the shoal; I swam quite aware of the angler awaiting.
Of society’s yoke that would bind me in its net

But the riverbed is beautiful; the moonlight is blue and aglow with all promise.
It’s seductive and clean and devoid of malice; represented as it is by light alone.


5 comments:

Dr Victorino de la Vega said...

“For though I swam with the shoal; I swam quite aware of the angler awaiting.
Of society’s yoke that would bind me in its net”

Yeah…
A metaphor for life
Binding together the hot-tempered bovine
And the cold-blooded fish
Desensitized victims of a higher order
But hey, who likes to suffer?
At least you and I are conscious
But we keep on swimming the same

Zatikia said...

I wonder about the place in your mind such words come from. Words that seep in, thoughts that break through. If it´s beautiful right now, what else.

littlebitofsonshine said...

sounds like a red fish on the way to home http://furtherleft.net/blackfish.htm

littlebitofsonshine said...

o and yes hope is alive allways i hope you jump the hook and are free

gregrandgar said...

thanks for bringing this post to my attention, you're right on about our piscean metaphors about the same stream and the same fisherman.
While reading it I thought of the parallel of that final upstream struggle of the salmon and the last few years of whittling on the stick holding the carrot, or finding out the bait was just one big fuck fest and death. The fry of the salmon don't have adults around to pass on their bad ideas but rather go to school on much wiser genetic memory.
Stop me before I don't stop with how insidious education is.