P u l s e

Is it hiding
in the folds of reality spun so
tightly around us, around
and around and around in that whirlwind of colour and noise and madness that forces us
to crane our necks and poke our chins out like silly little dolphins holding out
for that mysterious dark figure
of a man to nod
and toss us that fish
glistening and cold like a limp dick
still wet from the tongue that had licked it into orgasm

holding out

for a breath of fresh air
sucked into lungs
chilled by the gravity of the situation
yet not grave enough for us to ignore the irony
of the sea staring back with arms wide open and face
spread thin, showing
us how silly we look with our craned necks and poked-out chins, but of course, we already knew. Who would not know? The question is:
what can we do but draw our heads back in
and throw our punches
as if we mean it.