I am sat
In a tight picnic circle
Laid on the grey sand

I am a crusted seashell,
I am the limpets which cling to my skin
Like a sunken chest

The waves and sea gulls call
For each other and the cold
In the distance. The swimmers. The Irish

Sea and the Irish cold
Whistling,
The sea and the clouds

You are the froth
Flowing through my lungs like a white
Feather fallen from the sky

Silent
And dry
The rock's green hair swaying

The wind strikes the eye
Like a splash
And decays with

The grace of a coffin
For me the reeds have born their fruit
They stab the naked

Skin, you are still
Sleeping on your side
In the tent

You are still beautiful
Within, soon the ***** will unfold
And we shall embrace
The sea and her sons

Never have a mermaid as a girlfriend
it is a deep sea fishy affair
she may have golden hair with silver limpets
yet she never dons any underwear

The times I take her out for picnics
it always has to be by the sea
and whilst I make sandy cucumber sandwiches
she is playing with her mates, alone she leaves me

I hate her to get into a flap
for her tail is wet and very strong
so as her land loving boyfriend
who loves her, I just have to go along


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Cold and closed, each green
tidal lull lingers over rocks.

A line of pelicans heads home.
Before you arrived, days passed slower.

Th salt-grass, the anemone
blossom in cycles set up by the moon.

I wait like a spring tide.
Photos will prove changes

happen in increments.
Birds wait for sand *****,

limpets, littoral fish.
You practice naming each in order.

The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts

I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse

well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal

lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs

Lord Neptune's daughters
sit fast to their rocks
like Grotesque limpets
singing their songs to the sea
for the sirens sing for blood
that of warm blood of mariners

To the howl of the wind
and the dreadful din
as waves crash onto this hell
many ****** are tossed abound
then commence to run aground
onto beaches of razor sharp shells

Hideous screams of victory
echo over this foul land
and these wretches of piscine descent
now feed on the carcass of man.

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

i think. i think the trees are thinking.
i think
     the
tre
        es
   a
   R
e      thinking        

                                      OCTOBER
                                       ?

they say death. and they wear it. and they ware it.

                 and.

it's yellow talking on the gnarled limpets breathing
from their bruising trunks. suckling my apt pupils
         discharging lovely decay in my small
pocket of teeth and thoughts and veins. they,re an ******
   of crunching golden mort
  i walk through its delicious corpse
       and i take her.
      i take here. this is:

                YES

"The ocean is a desert
with its life underground
and a perfect disguise
above..." Dewey Bunnell

On a horse with
no name I rode
bare-backed in
the purple sage...
***** Pipe cacti
played the melodies
of Mexico.

Swaying sea grasses
were skirts for the
range fences...
broken and rusty.
To be avoided,
my parents warned...
Tetanus... lock-jaw.
Other things to be
aware of...
don't swim too far
from the beach...
don't stay too long
in the sun...

I was happy at the
tide pools... aqua and
pristine. Sea slugs...
far from slug-like.
Flat and purplish
with frilly edges,
undulating dancers.
Picked up and dropped
over and over.
Baby octopi... an
entire tidepool
drenched in purple
ink in its desperate
bid for freedom...
Sea Urchins...
"Their spines can
****..." my parents
warned. It was
fascinating how
they attached
themselves to
the rocks...
Almost as firmly
as the limpets...

We had
Hermit Crab races
Ate food disallowed
at home... swam
out to where water
was ultramarine...
jumped over the
barbed-wire...

with our arms

hugging

the

sun...*


SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/21/2017

There is alchemy in  Blackbird song
an opal paean through early doors
of infant sensing
Sprung limpets of the broad leaf crowns,
Will, heliacal, from chimney spires,
A crocus bowl of canticles
unwritten in the Latin blush.
of uncorrupted eloquence.

There is prophecy in blackbird song
from red Victoriana glance
those rippled satin auguries.
Sloe philharmonic oracles
untie the mellow chords of rest,
to sing as they have always sung
in allegories of days to come
beyond the headstone houses.

Trembling I lift the curtain
To let in the morning lightly
Time has taken away its beauty
Falsing the temperature down
And I cannot stem the flowing.

I’d found culture in my youth
Explosively exciting ,excruciating
In its weapons of desiring dressage
But now the limpets cling to a soul
Holding high the corsets of a cage.

love Mary

The auctioneers and valuers
where checking out your dress
A black baby doll with  polka dots
That design you stole from Vivenne West
You were rocking all your assets
Looking   Really   Really  hot
The band was playing some old Beatles  tune
and you mimed along to That means a lot

You move across the Dance floor
The baby doll still holding on
your entourage in tatters
now Broke and all alone
Eyes watch your every movement
like moths drawn to the fire
Each woman bitter in her envy
Each  man swollen with desire

They all try to catch your eye
you are in the zone
Your Body swaying to the music
That Baby doll still swings along
every movement pure perfection
each pirouette  its own song
They are basking in your Beauty
every shimmy turns them on

its as if you could walk on water
and the rhythm takes you far from shore
marooned among the Broken and the shipwrecked
you hear them howl and beg for more
They cling to you like cobwebs
like limpets to a rock
The broken hearted and the lonely
Those that Love forgot

They will try to catch you in their net  my love
and drag you back to shore
Thy will bind your feet  
and hold you tight for ever more
They will treat you like a puppet
some ones  dancing Marionette
The broken hearted and the lonely
Those purveyors of regret

The auctioneers and valuers
gather slowly round
Raising up their gavels
they bring the curtain down

Even in numbers they still flounder
seeking solace in gainsay ventriloquisms'
the puppets of absent mothers and fathers
now raking jingles for scroungers and bandits
looking for spurs to ride mice at the tournaments
hosting the regalia of the unwashed in whispered cabals
while shivering in the smite igloos of icy hot snow blindness

Power doth not stay hidden in shame
to voice the talk is walking the walk in light
to carry a lion heart means to face the lion and duel
know sweet point of the ****** means to know your aim
thousand arrows of twigs are banes of dishonourable hunts men
in lemmings fare the language of scrawling hordes is but saps' gabble
revealing from within  toneless rendition of admiration guised in fear

Show me the brave peasants with guts
attested and ready to stand the barricades fronts
not ****** snivelling hicks with brambles hiding in hedges
alas in years of heaves and bumps its recreants and fools on watch
drunk on sour mead with brains in broth gurning madly like witches
casting spells with fish and chips talking of see-saws like kids at fairs
laughable limpets off-springs of hay-gatherers never to amount to much
if conviction in truth is affray then man posts and lance with honour and truth

Before I started school, I ran carelessly.
Flailing propelled my growing body
Up steps or over barely audible roads.
Oh my! Have I grown?

The wooden disk atop the May Pole
Would snag and wobble as the ribbons
Pulled taught. I barely saw the girls
Below. Dressed in white, stained by grass.

Every time we stuck, weary grownups
Picked us up, turned us round, put us down
Like whirring clockwork toys. They spoke
In hushed voices. Bad men walked free.

I am proud of our resilience. We clung on,
Little limpets that we are. Without waves,
Our rock pools glisten in the autumn sun.
We are still breathing, we are still one.

The metallic Everest plasma of the old Wishing Well
Had an Abe Vigoda aroma with a nostalgic veneer
Of lost roads and upset carts.
The fumes are like gossamer limpets
On your golden soul, in a fitful sleep-
to rival all awakening.
The very air had a door that wept glee
and sang of dark angels brooding over
slabs of pie and squandering sunrise
to fork a tongue.

You are always there,
however the leaving arrives.
You’re like a hat
on a hat
Without too-
wise.