i am on the beach / waiting for my resurrection with the sand in my bad eye and the smell of goose **** pungent and intrusive, uninvited.
2:30 pm , friday of may 24 weekend; the beach is flat and empty of girls (for whom i am waiting) (will they know **w to save me ??) .
so far i have avoided sitting on a 3.5" nail, rusted, protruding from the duneside, and several shards of a broken bottle beer, keen to shred my winter-softened feet with their angry brown fangs. i will pick up as much of the glass as i can find and go home, calling myself a good samaritan.
"you're a ****." some seagulls say from the lake. i pick up a rock and let fly; they are just out of range. "you're a ****." they repeat as i walk back towards the footpath.