Swimming along with octopussies,
And the other outlandish creatures,
Who populate the psychedelic mindscape,
That is the world beneath the bobbing and undulation,
And snap and crackle and popping in the ears, that is the saltiness,
And general wierdness of the sea, the creatures.
Who can live without breathing,
Who can live with their eyes permanently Open,
Staring at a transparent,floating world which bobs up and down,
Where most of them  don't have anything they could call
"Home," but drifting is the name of the game,
Where you can be a so called individual,
In a swarm of ten million,
Identical silver darts,
Who sway,
And swarm in unison and scatter,
Like a splash of paint in slow motion,
At the nose of the shark or the sweep of my hand,
There I am, a special guest in this world,
With a priviledge pass for the day,
To watch the members only show.
That would flabberghast any normal man.
And I'm thinking about Italian verb declensions,
Singing distractedly the music from a film I watched,
Like a couch potato yesterday, worrying
about my self-image with my friends,
As I watch the vague shapes
Of the rocks,
On the bottom which,
No-one has stood on for a million years,
Draped with fronds of I don't know what but it'd smell of seaweed,
If it ever came up into my world.
But as the vast mystery,
Of the rocks,
Drifts past, with huge labels saying,
"Look at me, I'm a wonder of nature","Look at me, I'm a wonder of nature",
I realise that those irritatingly dreary thoughts,
Which seem to ruin the moment
Of mystery,
That inner drivel,
Which must have bothered Neil Armstrong just before he said,
"One small step for man, a giant leap for [I wonder if my mother's watching]"
Are also unknown mysterious wonders floating past me,
As I float, watching the spectacular show,
Of my consciousness