A simple fisherman lost his way
to the water, nirvana,
Surveys now the supple flesh
of each female
and imagines how the tender
bend of the elbow
would greet
and accept a needle.
A black cynicism
has washed over him,
the whole of the world he knows
Where the lakes, oceans and streams
once were the pleasure grounds
there is no joy,
no magic
no light anymore,
Bass ambush prey from the shadows
when triggered,
For now, all is still,
all is shadow
by all accounts frozen.
Who is the hunter?
Which is marked as prey?
Who is fishin' for him?
The bait has proven irresistible.
The lonely fisherman on the hook
torn, scarred by the barbs,
again disoriented
without the feelin' of even the fish,
with not sense enough
to gut laugh
and know that he is fucked.