"pliable" poems
*My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death
This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received
My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account
A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay
My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession
I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free
My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote
Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire
So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold
He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side
And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!*
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
*My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death
This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received
My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account
A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay
My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession
I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free
My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote
Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire
So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold
He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side
And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!*
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
*My depraved soul's unearthed
By the Holy Ghost's breath
And given new birth
Out of spiritual death
This wretch is turned 'round
Fit with eyes to believe
A lost sheep is found
And her Shepherd received
My blots are each edited
Out in Christ's fount
His righteousness credited
To my bankrupt account
A prisoner's been pardoned
No debt left to pay
A heart which was hardened
Becomes pliable clay
My life's set apart
Now from worldly regression
Picked out from the start
Made for Christ's own possession
I'm purchased with blood
Shed on Golgotha's tree
A slave bought by God
And fully set free
My sins were all laid
On the head of a Scapegoat
Who carried their weight
To a desert remote
Once an object of wrath
And deserving hell's fire
But Jesus took my bath—
Conflagration of God's ire
So an enemy no more
I'm brought into God's fold
Carried through His door
And out of night's cold
He calls me His child
His heir and His bride
Though once an orphan wild
Now seated at Christ's side
And soon He'll return
When salvation's complete
When no longer I'll yearn
For His own face I'll meet!*
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
She is the vindictive snow
Beautiful, cold causing her chilling touch to leave me numb
She creates an overload of dopamine for me
But like I said she left me numb
She compressed limerence upon me
The concentric feelings I have for her linger
This contours her opaque heart
Leaving her pliable words lay rendering in my mind
She applies this solvent to it leaving me broken
Forlorn she left me
Yet, the tactile, numbing sensation keeps me going
For she is the one I love
Causing our hearts to be diptych artwork off our hinges.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
Dough making
with flour and water
Salt and butter
Calls for kneading
In ritualistic candor
As parts come together
To an irreversible matter
The soft cushion of dough
between the palm and the bowl
pliable with every push and shove
stretched and compressed
In sheepish conformity
Blistered on skillet
Puffed up to a chapati
Heavens thanked with each bite
For flat bread with savory curry
Fills nostrils with soft aromas-
Relished as heaven on tongue-
One is contented of this flat bread
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
eye sometimes go to bed wearing an old hoody. It has a metal zipper to close the front and the zipper is always cold, unpleasantly so, on my bare skin. After awhile though, my body temperature warms the metal just enough, that it is no longer a cause of discomfort though the metal still remains inherently cool to the touch
While science can easily explain this I guess, I felt this to be a major miracle. That flesh pliable and heart-heated to 98 degrees could conquer the molecules of metal that were made in China struck me as extra ordinary (always two words, please!) and nothing short of a personal intervention by a personal deity
When I put the hoodie on at first I would think
******* (that's cold)
When I awoke, cosy and warm, I would think
******* (that's so cool)
having studied philosophy in Cleveland,
I knew that the logic of the situation,
what I had experienced was not an
interregnum, but the invisible intervening handiwork of god, who, also knocked my glasses from the nightable to the floor,
just cause she/ he was in a bad mood, on account of having to come such a long way, just,
to reheat me
one more time.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Storm in the morning hours.
You caress me, like I am suppose to know.
I let you.
Excited where this will go.
Pajamas make ********** me that more easy.
I am as pliable as those pajamas on days like this.
Don't get mad, I like being submissive on certain days.
You always throw my pajamas in such a crazy way.
Takes longer to retrieve them.
Longer than how much time you play.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
i.
I’ve heard people say on various occasions “if it’s meant to be, it will happen.” I don’t buy it.
Lots of things never happened that should have.
ii.
Talking to Jimi was like having a conversation thru the plexi-glass of a prison visitation room.
They could see each other, they could almost touch each other, but a layer of bullet proof glass stood between them and true intimacy. Yet, there were times when the wall was more like the shell of a bubble—thin and pliable and sticking to her fingers when she pressed against it. And Jimi’s shape
would begin to take form with her touch, and the reality of his true self would show in defiance of his expectations.
iii.
Jimi just didn’t seem to get it. It was like he thought every word Mango uttered about her crushed spirit and just trying to survive was some sort of manipulation tactic.
“You don't act like you did before.” She said.
“I'm sorry for that, you never leave my mind though.”
“The things going on in your head don't talk to me or spend time with me or hold me....they just
stay with you and I am all alone.”
iv.
“Jimi, I can’t focus, I can’t concentrate on anything! The sound of my thoughts are so loud that reality is just background clamor and white noise!”
“I’m trying, I’m doing the best I can. What more do you want me to do?”
“Move out! Make the leap! If you’re not happy there, if you don’t want to be married to her you shouldn’t be there. If being with me isn’t enough motivation to leave, then leave because Lizi deserves more than a fake husband.”
“I’m **** I’m just a coward. I don’t like myself for what I’m doing.”
“The only one who can change how you feel about yourself is you.
Sitting around thinking about how ****** you are isn’t going to change a **** thing.”
“Neither is yelling at me.”
“Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”
v.
Something in their relationship had died. Not unlike the many times Mango’s heart had been broken and her hope had been lost. But it was harder for Jimi, taking that leap of love in the first place was
the most difficult thing he had ever done. And now, he had never experienced such intense levels of pain, he thought his heart would literally stop beating, and he would be swallowed up by the enormous cavity in his chest. Mango wanted to know if he could love her again, and he didn’t know, he honestly didn’t know. He wanted to, but now the part of him that feared he would not be enough for her had taken over, and his sense of fear and overwhelm was too much for him to bear.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
I am the unnoticed, the unnoticable man:
The man who sat on your right in the morning train:
The man who looked through like a windowpane:
The man who was the colour of the carriage, the colour of the mounting
Morning pipe smoke.
I am the man too busy with a living to live,
Too hurried and worried to see and smell and touch:
The man who is patient too long and obeys too much
And wishes too softly and seldom.
I am the man they call the nation's backbone,
Who am boneless - playable castgut, pliable clay:
The Man they label Little lest one day
I dare to grow.
I am the rails on which the moment passes,
The megaphone for many words and voices:
I am the graph diagram,
Composite face.
I am the led, the easily-fed,
The tool, the not-quite-fool,
The would-be-safe-and-sound,
The uncomplaining, bound,
The dust fine-ground,
Stone-for-a-statue waveworn pebble-round
4.2k
Flexibility is the presence of structure
In the absence of rigidity.
Like the valves in my veins
That keep my blood flowing in the
Right direction.
As limber beings we can sway and bend without snapping.
Even under intense pressure,
We are able to return to normal
When we call upon our inner strength.
Our minds, like muscles,
Must be consistently stretched and tested
To remain pliable.
Allowing us to become more accepting of ourselves and others.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
Swoon to a tearful night, unknown to its grief
Dialogue of peace, and those of plight
Ringing of morphology, raindrops on the roof.
Such things heard from the peasants’ seat
In the many wet heads sopping
In the sonorous waves, upright in the city clime
Untending to their beds.
At the bottom of that something
All told are destined they will find
Be pliable to the ills they’ve dealt
To carry on, to work, admonishments
Said once to justify these red romances
That in every rain storm melt
As pity through the night, forever unclasped
From shackles of their blame
Since life and ideology somehow are the same.
‘Tis destiny for abating storms
As some will rose from their thickened thorns
These nights deliver their gentle morns
All the same as hemlock grows as poison
And is best to be avoided.
How—this, I fear only rain my know—
Can we still bathe in fraternal glow
When some still heal from Death himself
Each breath that enters is quickly prayed to leave
High on seated thrones
Those mean so quick to thieving, the poor
The lazy deserve no quarter
Those dusty pockets afford not one
So steal the heart upon his sleeve.
May we help man wrought our kin and kind
By common tongue, free, as we are ought?
Since another may make my world
He is mine to protect, not throw to bytes
So ludicrous and feeding back upon themselves
For destiny can be remade
If hatred weren’t so blind.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
A sneer,
A snide
remark
graces your skin,
Tingling despite
the smile.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm alive and
burning with rage.
I'm storming.
Clouds gather
At my fingertips,
Clouds gather at my
Lips.
The lower
Are troubled,
Churning and spurning
The gentle hand
That often lies.
The upper are
Sweet, soft,
Cotton candy
Falsities,
Covering up any memory
Of personal taste,
Of individuality.
I exist to please.
I'm a saucy
Sort of servant.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm alive and
Burning with rage.
I'm forming.
Forming infinitesimally
Tiny shapes,
Bits of broken
Anger and slander
Printed fresh like
A book.
Smaller and smaller
The pieces will shrink,
Pushed away
Into
The farthest
Corner of my cortex.
Flash,
Bam,
And with a puff of smoke
It's almost gone.
I'm a magician.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm whatever
You please.
I'm cotton candy
Shit-sticking,
White and pliable;
Olive will give away
If you just keep hitting.
I'm disgusted.
I'm irate.
I'm barely hanging on.
I'm burning
With rage.
But,
I'm alive.
Yes,
I'm alive.
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
Am I that easy?
To corrupt, to change,
to turn into something I never intended to be?
Or is my will just weak,
and I am pliable under your strong hands?
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
Oh Muse! endow my verses like the
grease
which in a pliable state, straightens
the choppy motion.
Dear Apollo! enlighten my words like
the hell fire
that light gives, yet a sharp gaze
broils the eggs*.
Oh wretched Hydes! weep but one
more time for me
for the constellation bears rain no
more.
Oh Jove! rain the one pacific upon me
for I will to drown myself today.
Ah flora! the color of spring has
blanched away
for the pompoms bloom ashen
Lovely Aurora! why you withhold
yourself from me?
She's glum with me, why trying you
too be?
Eye some Aphrodite! take care of and
preserve the winsomeness.
for the lass** knows no value, it has to
me...
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
we built a teepee in the woods out back,
hoping for a fortress where we could avoid
my parents' calls for us to come inside
and out of the pitch black of a tangled forest.
it wasn’t perfect – there was no hide
with which to cover it, decorated with
red and blue creatures of the earth, dancing
upon geometric patterns.
some of the branches we used to craft this teepee
stuck out, thin, pliable fingers
with budding leaves instead of nails, gently swaying
and conducting some silent melody in the breeze.
these branches were leaned in a circle, supporting each other
with circles of young, green sinew layered beneath their bark.
we bound them together at their peak, unwinding a ball of string
that would fray and disintegrate with every rainstorm.
we failed, also, to consider our chosen place for this Indian home.
rather than soft grass or spongy moss, we sat
uncomfortably and shifting, on layers of dirt
and dead, dry leaves, decaying beneath us
as we stared into a leafy ceiling,
framed and outlined by the gold sunlight,
before the fiery sky turned to purple and red, and
mosquitoes bit at our ankles, driving us from the forest
and into my home.
there we lay, staring up at glow-in-the-dark stickers
mimicking Orion and Ursa, Libra and Gemini,
on my plain and darkened ceiling.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 3:15 PM UTC
You promised you'd fight for us
But if I were to end this
You would encourage me to go
Your words get caught in a spiderweb
Spawn up then ****** dry
Guess your vision of us was misled by your own eyes
I promised I'd never take a break from you
But I forgot to messaged you two days in a row
Some promises are meant to be broke
You must think my words aren't reliable
I easily stuffed them behind the wall of flaws because there pliable
The promises we made should be buried beneath the ground
Silence forever
If they could speak lies would be their only sound
Both bound by this undeniable love
But missing the necessary pieces to crown our words as kings and queens
Instead they've been impeached
Some promises are meant to be broken
At least the ones we've made
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
Vision Blurred from mind murmurs, I pause.
Weak so very weak, ideas -the main cause-
It starts with thought, Mine? Maybe. Theirs? Viable.
Perchance a sight sparks sources, pliable
To my forgotten fountain of words and youth.
Whatever kerosene lights false truths,
Matters not, the elicit creation
Itself boils thick blood, a gyration
Of self-exploration and daydreams.
Envision that my dear, a lonely sunbeam:
It is there! Muses dancing in the field,
Undulating excitement revealed!
The blank page beckons, the clever pen begs
To strut. Alas! Its form flutters, the dregs
Remain to tease&taunt; the restless soul
My mind murmurs, trapped, weakened: the sinkhole
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 8:32 PM UTC
Trick tricky on a radiant platform
Jezebel, arms full of gnashing curs
She loves everybody, that girl
She always meant well
The most dangerous thing in the world
Riding the dragon straight into the apocalypse
Nine heads slavering, always hungry
Swollen with decades of wasted debauchery
Brimstone falling from the rafters, pillars of melting wax, melting faces
Tongue to the iron, proving my lie
A deception of self, it’s a ******* masterpiece
The garden lush that falls to rot,
Lunatic blight, land that salts itself
Spending what was spent until it is finally dry like wither.
I,
I run hot and cold, a cheap parlor trick gone bad
Changing phase to phase and back again, losing a little more each time
Tiamat to fire the kiln, I wait
Too polluted by far to continue this way any longer
Wrapping myself up small for you, so helpless and inevitable
Hell-bent on teaching you how to better abuse me
Help me to recreate myself, oh yes please
I am, you will find
More pliable even, in the heat of your hands
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
There's one thing now I know in life;
My God will answer prayer.
He watches 'ore me night and day,
my burdens for to bear!
He's willing to forgive my sin,
if simply I will ask;
He'll heal the wounds, the broken hearts,
and leave them in the past!
Don't worry 'bout those little things,
just give them all to God;
He'll show you He is in control
in ANY life we trod!
When ever feeling all alone,
just trust in this one thing-
My God is always by your side;
your sheltered 'neath His wing!
He's sure to let some hard times come,
He let's us feel some pain;
He'll make our hearts more pliable,
with heat from trial's flame!
Don't EVER get so down and out
and think He's left your side,
Just turn and look - He's standing there,
with arms spread open wide!
So think about this in your life,
when Satan means you harm;
My God has got you safely wrapped-
in comfort of His Arms!
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
I want to be the potter
and you the clay
I want to work you with my hands
My fingertips pressing
now....against the keys
the board stiff under the sensitive pads
as I feel you press back against me
imagining
your lips
soft
wet
tenderly
pressing
into me.
The clay
soft and supple under my hands
forming you,
widening you again and again
my muscles working
against your stiffer aspects
as we spin together
wetting, re-wetting
and smoothing
my hands against
your silky slick
foundation
strong and yet pliable
seeking relief
from standing strong
and unyielding
need.
You are a deeper container
than I anticipated
and I, a roaring flood
threatening
sweep you
away.
but you hold...
steady.
What Joy!
What Relief!
we never expected
to contain one another
without harm!
without fear!
Peaceful
now
our lines
flow together
the potter
the clay
the hand
and the wheel
we come together.
I love how we feel.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 4:32 AM UTC
We are young!
We are strong!
Lungs to the heavens
as our hearts sing along!
We run as thousands
but we stand as one!
Souls in the heavens
with eyes on the gun, fun!
Pound our feet in the ground,
rumblin' rhythmic footsteps
move mountains with its sound!
Our words heat the air
as the ice cracks loud!
Their shiver is shared;
Let them stare, we don't care
Melt into the crowd,
and we still stand out!
Individual
Indivisible
Indescribable
Indefensible
Yet still feasible to stay reasonable
No treason is seasonal
No wall is that pliable
Withstand hate with strength undeniable
Vicious, and still likable
Quick to bite; to heal a wound
Get hurt, get chewed
Get back up, Get out soon
And we stand up in rythum
And get back in tune
Singing a song, to sing along
Where we all belong,
Where none is wrong
Mass hysteria with a flex of a muscle
Show them all just how strong
Long in the tooth
or still young
You too can have youth
melt in the crowd, stand your ground
or get swallowed up by the swiftness of our sound
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
And the clock aligned, hands pointing
To that moment,
The moment,
When the veil softened
Pliable,
Torn,
Reality,
Was of all and both, secreted
Upon the evitable realities,
They made there moves, limited
Moments upon an unsuspecting
Existence, But they were misguided
That even though they came through
A
Full
Moon
Shined upon them, much like the sun
The light of that upon high,
They scurried to that point,
To that place,
Moments past
And new statues were adorned upon
Grass,
Tree's,
Ground,
They were frozen, living stone
As night gave in to light,
For there are safe guards of old,
When time became fluid,
Barriers between realities sewed
Into the universes fabric, to Keep
Each safe from prying
Dimensions
Realities
Empty,
Places where darkness waits,
"And so on this night where moments aligned"
"If you see statues erected when none before"
"Thinking of them as art"
Know the veil was weakened by this night
But the universe righted this wrong, before chaos
Ruled and realties were once again sewed tight..
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire
untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...
patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...
19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.
suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...
panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?
you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC