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Nov 2015
I'm standing at the seashore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets and two lines left in the letter. I'm standing at the seashore, bench facing the Squat & Gobble, the tin weir and we're near the roadside. The sky opened wide, this skin drawn with threat, Rhinoceroses, bruise bending the sweet ships of victory backwards into the backwaters of mislead moonlight. Guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos sweeping, the hum of percolated coffee on smoke stained night club walls. I'm standing at the seashore, my mouth is a ghost, I've seen nothing but death, I'm name-dropping God and there's nobody there.

I'm sitting in my room with my hands on my keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock. Riding horseback into candlelight on a wicked wedding of teary-eyed geysers and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder, I'm all alone but it feels like you're here.
HalfMoonBay Secrets SanFrancisco Pacific time poems God Danish Denmark TrentemΓΈller shadows curses cities yearning want California CA sanfranxiscoviachicagoblues theseashore seashore thoughts on VirginiaWoolf the weight the band otisredding brokenscoialscene broken social scene pennyroyaltea solemn sadness perfect humanness quality of being imperfect life letters letter writer Chicago poetry musedandamused martinnarrod excerpt ThePlateau
Martin Narrod
Written by
Martin Narrod  33/M/CA
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