An island somewhere
The only place with delicacy so rare
Found only by luck, Most would consider me stuck
But I'm living joyously in my delusional haze
No longer counting days
Since I lost ten through twenty
There is happiness in my veins
Believe, I have plenty.
The hunger is perfectly numb
What shall I dine on next
Perhaps a thumb.

On this island in the sky..
Above all of the stars..
I sing a song to the moons that glow..
A song about what might be below..

The sky islands are home..
Always have been..
They say that there is nothing below..
But I believe there is truly something there I hope.

That is until one night a beam of light shined..
It pointed from down under..
Toward our sky islands above..
They looked to us with wonder..

Some of us were amazed.
While some of us were scared..
Is this something good or something bad..
Perhaps there is a reason we never knew of the people below our sky land..

Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.

every human being is an island.
so little on the surface
compared to the wonder beneath.
we present only what we wish others to know,
the superficiality consuming humanity.
nobody will ever know what is truly inside
and this is okay
according to society.

but i say **** society.
true contentment resides within our heart
and we must let others reach inside
and with their love guide
us up to the surface
so that our island represents
all of us.
and not just the façade.

The Atlantic Ocean and I sigh
in unison against the shoreline
of Amagansett Beach
and as she inhales;
she drags the land above below,
one grain of sand at a time.

In a few generations
she will have devoured this entire beach,
eventually the whole Island
and with it the multi-million dollar estates
which decorate its topology
like an effigy to human vanity.

I would say never before in history
has there been so few with so much
who have done so little
but that would denote
some kind of significance
and they are hardly worth noting.

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where cold winds can flow through me
Freezing away my poor choices

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where the clouds merge into blankets of comfort
Where I can rest my tired head

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where mystery and wonder dance delicately
Enticing me to join in

Take me to the Isle of Skye
Where the musical rivers sing sweet
An enchanting melody to get lost to

Take me to the Isle of Skye
So I can merge myself into its identity
And finally let go from the cruel clutches of humanity

Take me to the Isle of Skye
To disintegrate my soul into its beauty
My words just gentle whispers in the wind

Calling home the lost souls
To the warm embraces
Of the Isle of Skye

she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.

pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &

she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.

fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.

       marinated artichoke hearts.

[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.

shapeshifter, son drunk
& changing skins.
he digs up skeletons of a spanish battalion
buried
by tigers on the garden key.

suncresent
spray of blood & oranges.
new-fangled sailors once soaked
in madness.
now just starvation.

the viking speaks:
in limericks of new world poise.
his antler woven mask,
set nicely upon the shore.

seod, turtle lord
of space & time, appears only once
every lunar eclipse. bound by treatise
to the jellyfish triumvirate.
his acolyte,
bolivar t. shagnasty,
wanders the mainland in search of water
or meat of trees.

kindness
of men turns to dust & belly worms.
forgotten, the plants mutate
into root-rich empires
of fish & figurine.
million year armistice.

dr. samuel mudd,
shackled years to tide-slab &
fort jefferson. he
purifies the island of its yellow
shivering death.
hospital key.

fastforward hundred plus years
through mudd lifeline:
battle weary sneakers,
spokes sung by strum of card, the bmx
stridden boy & his
teenage mutant ninja turtle mask.

The fire of life spreads across the wide  horizon, not even the great Atlantic can stop it now. The lack of wind sends a storm of blood ******* fiends to nibble at my *****, enjoy my juices!

I sit around the remnants of someones idea of good time and rekindle the flame. Smouldering seaweed is enough to keep those ****** parasites away from my blood. Drift wood catches, crackles and keeps the morning chill at bay. Crows, chipmunks and chickadees call out to one another.

As the ruby grapefruit awakens from her slumber I notice that the moon is in full bloom behind my head. The king and queen have set and their masters have come out to play.

Miniature seabirds preform impressive aerial stunts while searching for their morning meal. Hungry crows check for crab corpses as the crimson Sun makes its first appearance atop the curvature of the world.

Reflecting rays blind me and cause spots in my vision. The price you pay for looking into the soul of God.

Cirrus clouds soaking in coral rays. Mother duck feeds her young. Cool sand between my toes. Searching for sticks to spread the flame, running free, no better place to spend one's hard earned sand doller.