All perfect plans, in theory,
Hey! Put that kid down!
Hudson, Hicks, Vasquez,
Android crew on board. Ripley -
Didn't like cornbread.
Last survivor, Newt.
You're just a grunt.
'Yeah, Bishop should go'
Sulaco dropship inbound,
Huggers roam freely.
One final rescue,
Push through the god-**** airlock.
Escape. Fade to black.
The coach capsized and spilled its freight,
a glut of rabid reprobates,
who swarm towards a sea of lights
and fill their cups with harbour nights.
We do not heed the lighthouse glare,
or match the fortune-teller's stare.
We storm the cliffs as if to pillage
the gift shops of this seaside village.
We mill around a restaurant's doors
and nip at hot dogs with our claws.
Stockpiling rock up by the stick,
whilst wearing hats marked 'Kiss Me Quick'.
Because we cannot hear their cries
for whispered arcade lullabies,
the gulls will dance above the tide
and mock sandcastle suicides.
The distant fort once planted proud,
clings to the hillside like a shroud.
Its craggy face a last dissuasion,
against the sea's saline invasion.
Perhaps the Ferris wheel's arc,
can count each dawn against the dark.
A spotlight shone upon each heart,
as we rehearse our weathered parts.
Pastime play or parlor show,
we forget the lines we ought to know
and stumble on with blind devotion,
to pour our years into the ocean.
And yet! We catch the child's smile,
projected on a seafront mile.
His mirth casts doubt upon the claim,
that each new act concludes the same.
The beach begins and ends each dance,
each interval a second chance
to wake the youth we put to sleep
and cast the hourglass into the deep.
I'm troubled by a broken tune,
that can't keep time and loops too soon.
Like Christmas in the heart of June,
each summer's heat a curdled moon.
It's not that I keep glancing back,
or wander down well-trodden tracks,
I've raged against a wall of facts,
interrogating every crack.
Yet still I feel its tender bass
and scrawl each lyric on my face.
I've copied out each line to trace
the meaning of this groundhog chase.
No matter which new route I choose,
this labyrinth seems short of clues.
There are no shields or string to use,
just an ageing bard that strums the blues.
And now begins another dance,
the waltz of sighs and askew glance.
It's orchestra tuned up by chance,
with instruments of circumstance.
And so returns the song's refrain.
Its endless echo back again,
to score my steps while I remain,
a different man, who's still the same.
Walk a perfect path.
A thousand easy footsteps -
- when the shoes fit well.
Work is a prison
filled with white spreadsheet walls
and blank, empty cells
They all said it was risky,
cos the stakes were too high.
But I'd drank all the whiskey
and my sense had run dry.
So I sat down in earnest
and she pulled up a chair.
The place was a furnace,
as she swept back her hair.
Well we called for a dealer
and counted out chips.
Then we ordered tequila,
as her tongue traced her lips.
So we started out betting,
till the game was ablaze.
I confess I was sweating,
as the cards hit the baize.
Well I studied the table
and covered my grin.
Cos I knew I'd be able,
to play big and win.
I raised her bets higher
and gave no reprieve.
Until the light of the fire,
caught the ace up her sleeve.
As soon as I spied it,
I tried to withdraw.
She took no pains to hide it,
or the guard on the door.
I felt instantly older
and shuddered with cold,
when a hand gripped my shoulder,
I heard 'All-In or Fold.'