Ill in irate.
7.18.18 – Ichthy
Swedish was readily available to curse in, but I was a bit of a fish out of water. At a loss for all the swearing in I’d have done if I could have swam over that dam of hard volume. The words we could, we consumed but their partitions stuck in like missed hooks looking for finer lips, sinking with leading lures for the lurkers’ quirks and quibbles, jeers struck like scribbles with only scratch to squabble over. No notes to show for it, just crammed vocab with no habit of practicing for far use. We’d have to chose the breathless, a fresh list with less heft for our gills to grok on. Slowly it’d grow on us, slinging slang with the same regional twang as those other swimmers. The tics we’d pick up with the same deftness of a starving pigeon seeking one last missing morsel; hopefully not hung up on our scales, blinding and bearing a silver weight but still calm to state with lasting tongue what propriety couldn’t quite equate with undone language. We’d slip through, slick though, fins flashing in passing and air pressing us back to vexing with storming schools of swarming thought. We’d rather not have had such arguments, unruly and over spent on standing sense, which we with lacked feet couldn’t keep. Drowning was a dare for other fair creatures, ones we could speak to, meet with teeth, greet with Greek. It was lost then that our names be in that deep Latin, grasped and clad in ancient tradition for some same-sake as the profanity we expanded in these wasted waters.