In the supermarket of fragmented seas,
the aisle of lapping dreams calls. Pudding cups
filled with phantom salt drift under
synthetic fluorescent bridges.
“Stop that, the turtles will sue," exclaimed Ollie
the bespectacled crab, adjusting his entrecôte tie
as a dissident octopus scuttled by auditioning
for the role of watery crescendo.
Somewhere out in fictitious currents, the
shadow of a wandering synthesizer hummed; vile
mélange of kaleidoscope altitudes and
linguistically deficient echoes blew tenderly
across newly christened horizons.