Anglerfish Poem by Taylor Rosewood

I think I'll don a muscle
car and head toward
Huntington Beach.

Icons will lead the way,
and cheerful colors are
powerful medicine.

There's a dotted line down
my chest, and I'm feeling
a bit divided,

but my dead end isn't dead.

It's where the sand begins.

My muscles turn into fins,
but I'm not like a fifties sedan.

Yet the moment I take a bite,
I'm in a cul-de-sac.

I'm reduced to a pair of gonads,
by means of natural selection,

driven to deliver the goods
before my license to drive
is revoked.

How is it that I'm special
when I don't get to see
her face?

Is it possible I made a
wrong turn, or is this a
cosmic joke?

In any case, 'Honey I'm home.'
just seems so ineffectual,

but when express remorse,
I'm told I only asked
for sex.












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