I'm Sydney.
In general, I prescribe to the three P's of life: poetry, prose, and puns.
The music begins. The sea waits by the door.
Both skin and scale are glowing. The neck he wears
Is just a little loose, he must tighten it.
The chin has worn away on his left side.
The music slops about inside his belly a while
Then creeps upward blowing through his ears
Into the room and hard against the walls.
Now he is swimming. He sees the music
Floating in the tank of the room. He must practice harder.
It is his food after all. He can feel its strands
Slip between his fingers, now silk, now knife.
It smells wholesome, of water, night and skin.
'How does it sound?' he asks her. 'Like salt,' she says,
'Like salt and damascene.' Her fancy talk, he thinks.
-- "Fish Music", George Szirtes
