The quiet beach, you will see
the quiet beach, that isn’t me
I am the sharp shells
I am their twisted shards
the ships gone astray
the fallen ice-creams
and melted mars-bars of the day
I am the crashed kites
the booming looming bellyfish
the bitchy bouncing volleyballs
the singalong-with-Mr-Sandman trolls
I am the sunburned suntan fan
the way too recent indecent exposure poser
I’m the football father
fodder mother
the peevish, pettish, paddling bother
I’m the soaking-wet-salt-sea rejector
I’m the hey-they’ve-dug-them-holes detector
I am the assholes
the clattering flagpoles
Now, as you can see
the quiet beach, that isn’t me
I am coffee with sugar and a little cloud of sand
I’m the smoggy fumes from a certain kind of restaurant
I am what’s left of nature in this land
some bare items which are getting out of hand
some bare items which I would not recommend:
Flotsam in sea purse
oil-slick-water
plastic in bird
disaster tourist theatre
and this spectacle even more sour to the core
when washed-out whales come washing ashore
but all I wanna hear is the rustle of the sea
so if I may choose put the volume down to three
hey are you deaf, I said:
one
two
three
—2014