There’re bubbles everywhere, they’re in my hair
Bubbles dancing around my head
They’re bubbles everywhere I can't help but stare
At the bubbles above my bed
But I don’t have gills
Soon I’ll be still
And the bubbles will carry this final song to no one.

I never really liked standing still
That’s why I tried to chisel my own gills
But when I jumped into the sea
The bubbles evaded me
When there’s no air to breath
Do the neutron bounce and enjoy life in the current!

A goldfish grows to meet the size of the bowl
I always felt like my bowl was trying to swallow me whole
So I swapped my eyes for X's
Received a toilet exit
The sewer sludge tarnished my shine
But battered scales are part of life in the current

Funny things, Bubbles.
Perfectly rounded manifestations of submerged voice.
Cute little blissful bulbs devoid of intention.

I once tried to have a conversation with a wandering bubble.
The bubble didn’t come across as rude in the same way that a child preoccupied with little blocks doesn’t seem rude
It was merely oblivious-- or totally indifferent to my existence.
Now, I endeavour to interact with this bubble some more.

-- I’m watching ballet dancers performing an eloquent routine on an old Greek scale. They communicate with undulating reciprocal movements, careful to maintain balance and to keep the conversation interesting. These dancers have never met but they fully understand one another.
Their language is brash and prurient but they can never touch, or else the scale will tip. I try to engage with the dancers but a guard turns me into liquid, bottles me up and sends me back to the surf; An unintelligible message in a bottle, liquid divided from other liquid by a thin layer, like a bubble of concealed air floating without a care; an aesthetic jewel for a child.

Bubbles are tiny, jettisoned escape-pods. Indolent units bearing messages with a return address too soaked to make out.

I track this nebulous carrier further, but soon realize neither one of us is allowed to have a plan.
Our journeys are dictated by the rhythms of the deep: An inexorable drum stomp, sewn to a slimy croaking stand-up bass bludgeoning.
Siren songs reign prodigious, immaculate and lewd.
Oh that’s right I came down here in search of food, a mermaid lover to brighten my mood, but all I found was a current in the flowing glue.

Comic book voice bubbles suddenly show a sardonic glow.

The lights flicker on the ride, before dimming fully, but I feel the seemingly evasive bubble cuddle against my ear before popping as if to say “only the hopeless dark brings out the lark with numbing secrets as songs--you hoped for a dove didn’t you?”
(But it wouldn’t be right to divulge the actual message concealed in the bubble.)
All I can say is the bubble reveals a familiar voice harmonizing with the sirens. Then I remember Jeff Buckley was lost in this same river.
Many swan songs of sailors and lost-at-sea singers just come out as bubble escape pods

Last lamentations, lyrical improvisations, vicious desperate squeals for eels, remarks for sharks, riffs of authentic blues lost in the big blue, all trapped in wandering bubbles,
available to doomed people stuck in the current like me and like you.