i am a poetic mastermind

as if the ocean had a heart
and as if the cracks down there were symbolic
we stream like blood from the offing;
black, foul, yet, vibrant in the veins blue,
throbbing like a pulse of death.

from the bottomless pit with floor of granith,
absconding to the surface claw-torn,
like poison gas, Aleppo, Damascus;
we rise, albeit slow, through slough,
like war ants marching homeward eternally.

through that weird, disturbing static
some call life, some call the inescapable,
torturous culpability of consciousness
we float like spirits whose tempers been challenged
by obnoxious mediums, faux soothsayers, so-called "psychics"
pushing the borders to something they do not at all understand;

we invite these people
to swim
in the shark-infested waters
they falsely call turf;
at the behest of our own compass
we tremble within our very atomic structure
and share the starlit sleep, the satin bed,
with Inanna, the beautiful, the warring,
and we wake up
       to the sound
            and the smell
       of her
fingering her luscious vulva.

she raises her wet hand to the sea, dripping -
      Tiamat yawns awake.