The quiet beach

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
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:


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