Steven Cline

The Oneiric Flood

Ocean Murmur

An account

My first words upon seeing the Atlantic this year were “I want to fuck the ocean.” My first sensation on swimming in it was that of being in a sexual caress. Though we liked the idea of a hermaphroditic ocean, eventually my wife and I had to admit to its obvious feminine gender. We got out and walked along the beach, observing the gifts she brought to us: a red rubbery carcass of unknown origin, and a sunken tree root with a phallus. Later at the aquarium, we were able to touch rays and starfish. I let the starfish slowly inch its way across my hand. Its tiny feelers moved strangely, sucking at my skin and clinging to me. I struggled to pull it away from my palm. An ocean full of such creatures – it was unimaginable. I pictured myself as a sunken corpse, naked and vulnerable at the bottom of the ocean. My body becoming slowly covered by these soft and amorphous creatures, feeding on my flesh in an orgy of vicious and sublime beauty…

A prediction under the bright summer sun

Oceans rise and Eros has her revenge. Dead capitalist concrete transformed into mountains of erotic flesh.  Over on 55th Street, a giant squid inserts her tentacles into the belly button of an old taxi diver, while a few feet away the frightened shop owner’s back is covered with convulsing jellies. Divination time – semen mixed with geometrically assembled fish guts requires an exceptional green eye for proper reading. Never mind the still-moving gills. Amidst the moist chaos, desperate couplings are performed upon the backs of giant sea anemones that have been waiting patiently for just such an occasion. The ocean turns white, then red, then white again. Canoeing onlookers notice a rapidly changing consistency and buoyancy. And where have the butterflyfish gone? The ocean, no longer bounded by gravity, consumes reality in one soft and gelatinous orgasm.