I walk down to the quayside,
past the Pure Gym fitness centre's
plate glass window.
There is a phalanx of treadmills
facing the glass,
populated by women
running nowhere,
an image of futility,
trapped like flies at a window,
determined and doomed.

The fitness centre looks out
at the huge boats
that work North Sea
between the oil fields and the fishing grounds:

The Olympic Commander,
Normand Aurora,
Skandi Caledonia,
Helliar.

On the high decks,
men in yellow oilskins
lean over the ship rail
and watch the women run.

For a moment I stand
between them, the earnest women,
the wistful men,
feeling for both but belonging with neither.

The sun is low in the sky,
and there's an Arctic bite
to the wind.
I pull up my collar,
and hurry into veins
of the granite city.

by: William A. Marshall


I stepped off the world
today,
off the broken streets
that winter has damaged
and municipal assessments
off the political gluttons
and performative marks
off the know-it-alls
and wild dogs roving around
with their ****
noses in the air
it’s not pretty
they cover what they don’t know
so that they look good
I head back down the dark hallway
to get a more primitive angle
off of privileged confidence
they are vulnerable
basic caretakers pursuing opulent corsages
to free them from their anxious quotas
and ******* rules
telling me how to wipe my ***
and how to use baby wipes
jointly acting like they run things
from their phony utilitarian bus stop
and cutting-edge applications
their personal band plays a cheerful tune
in the background
as they search for a bigger
advantage and more likes
even though we all share the same horror
youth is about mistakes
and making money
and choices with one eye here and now
the other eye on prevalent professions
students and maintenance men
bureaucratic puppets and academics
farmers and auditors
sales greasers and coaches
writers and board members
somewhere they end up there
carrying a liability
and it creates a vibration in my foxhole
but right in here baby
deep down within me
inside my tomb
I transfer to a silent
place away from
rambling rotting fungus
I step off of it
not always methodically
and then back into faults
and louse packs
I can only assume my rock
that sits in my hole immobile
next to the ****** candy wipes
unless I push it up ontic peaks
nonbeing begins to doubt me
and grips part of you so don’t
think that it doesn’t
I cut it with my knife
obliquely
finding unfortunate contagions
and courage down in the vault of silence
it is there or it isn’t
it is what keeps my will interested
far from the ones moving rashly
without it you would leap from bridges
through minefields I remember
a certain detachment
an uneven and sick progression
paperwork and a number with
a D affixed to its file
the ceiling became the nightly norm
this plastic vacuum-packed
wedding gown made of white silk
made weird noises
in the back of my closet
like it was weeping
the kind of dress
only worn once
it smelled like her that closet
retelling me each time
I opened the private door
making fake crinkling sounds
an icon of pure young tenderness
love expense and faith
eventually cooked and burned  
but it is too early
those individuals that gloat in pictures
and dream about their prince
they are busy playing with
their hair and organic shoulder bags
driving around in furnished cars
the uncorrupted ones
constant courses to come and
subsequent interviews
nailed skintight dresses
soon to be colored sweet red
with danger competing
well you had better feel lucky
because when you plunge into
future swamplands
incompetence and repayment
of what to do with it
and how then to
fill up your cup
without spilling it
all over your soul
don’t tell me how
to live my **** life
now is your time
to reason and shake imperfection
interruptions
over and over
those that listen to your intrusiveness
false performances in chic coffee shops
it is not sustainable there
but you play the part to maintain
your chair in the cooperative
you will miss it
neglecting real evil
because you were talking too much
maintaining your image
Bradbury whispers
from the counter,
“You can't make people listen
they have to come round in
their own time wondering
what happened and why
the world blew up around them
it can't last.”
and numbness above nightly cocktails
distracted dub tracks
ultimately attending
hectic personnel meetings
in drenched swamps
spinning with heartless ***** jobs
unconcerned about safe comforts
two things balance them out
people and things
all part of it out there in the world
and they approach like a train
suffering shocks
unemotional images in chambers
some actually never return
from the beatings
but this isn’t the end
this is a commencement
for me
the forecast is water-resistant
they hurry snatching their
body spray and shower gel
on mirrored reflections
that scowl back at them
all alone there
in their glass steeple
family photos
thinking they have nurtured something
more than endless gossip
and ****** strains
much more important now
bent into independence
pausing with the approaching sunrise
as it splashes powerfully
inside their speculations
pride doesn’t care
if you think you are not puffed-up
at all you are
who in the hell are you kidding?
nothing to cling to
essential oilskins and manuscripts
credit problems
and autobiographical *** packed expressions
corner office windows
and diplomas
behind high-back chairs
trying to copy Sunday magazine’s
hottest statement
to fill up their life
a reminder just who the comics are
but it does not register
until that day
when it becomes intolerably vile
beneath wreckage
and burnt ruins
they find his
caring donation
clinched in the saviors grasp
jutting through burning garrisons
there is no truth more senior
than this truth here and now
but they can’t all be imparted
in this culturally planned folklore
I see them
when I am walking away
from the insulated bubble
down the street
like recruits in boot camp
and zealously rich parents
who send their youngsters
with luggage and loans
nearby like idols
salesman explaining things
as they nod like they are approving something
perhaps autonomy
from fathers and mothers
who stand with them astutely contemplating
the whole arrangement
they stare at the marble floor
I observe the run-through
the glittery entertainment
and documented departments
for happy pilgrims
who are insulated
for now

In the conservatory with the windows open wide I can still smell your pipe smoke.
I walk past and feel your oilskins' brush my hand.
I found some snippets of jet black hair left in my jewellery tray.
Your crash helmet  sits on the hallway table.
I swear it wasn't there yesterday.
A visiting spirit playing games with my memory.
I'm  guessing that's all it  can be.
Or maybe I haven't accepted you're gone.
Love lingering too long.
(C) LIVVI

It is something out of a Wyeth painting,
the old life saving station at the end of the world,
a museum now, as if no one needed saving any longer.

Maybe they do not, at least not here.
Most who come here are tourists.
They walk the shoreline,
content to go no more than ankle deep,
content with the illusion of the sea
and being there, at the edges.

There are fewer fishermen in deep waters,
those who know the ocean intimately.
Today they have instruments that predate the old station;
instruments that warn them of coming weather,
and bring them in to shore before the worst of it.

And so the old station has become a museum,
a place to remember simpler, more dangerous times,
with oilskins hanging on the walls
and rubber boots on the floors below them.
Photos of rescues past line the wall
for tourists to “oooh” and “ahhhh” over
as if no one needed rescuing today,
a beautiful lie, history. ignored at our own peril.