Drowned together for days,
blind as a nose of lung, we hate noise,

suffer emotion. Outside,
the dumb noise of spray: every blue and hump

sperming down to Far Tortuga, oceans of breach
untouched. Light is a blowhole wetting us.

Why not go deep, perhaps a fathom or two?
Conceal from me a harsh timidity. Bubble up

to baleen the algae of sky between the horns
of my thumb and forefinger. Your sea-self opens,

floppy as a body empty of bone,
every swim by Miami a shell-song and oh-yah.

Inconclusive provocations       bio-lit

the dull chute tent        of Emin's sex life,

1963-1995,       chummed death from formaldehyde,

loud zygotics       of ponder and bloating

species in the cachet       churn of Saatchi.

Out-split pigs,       there, lunch boxes of giftshopped face,

carnage assemblaged.       Do we mature by killing, stuffing,

or by creating offense?       Ofili's Ave Turd Maria

smeared before Leibovitz.       Now the frozen

blood bust of Quinn merged       and Bowie was not de-sublimated,

sniffing a proboscis of fiberglass       penis for $9.75