Under the surface, the mucus ain´t new, it´s all chewed up. The crazed gue smells of putrefuction why not. It´s my election.
Used to it not noticing. Normal. Fifty already yet looking through glue. Nothing new.
Air becomes rare these days. Under the surface is left a bit , and staring out keeps me fit.
Hunger. Need to inhale.
The fish spells a wish. I want a dish.
Ready for the other side, ready for the outer sight. Ready for the birdie sight!
And out peaks the peak, the peaking won´t end.
Maybe I´ll die in my nest and transcend.
While editing this poem, which has been written two days earlier, on 25.2.15., my mind was on the collage of Jo Freehand shown above.