295. beside the seaside
kids today –
look at ’em
snivelling
puking
smoking furtively
in uniform
all anger & snot
tattoos & knives
hunkered down
huddled together
and what a din
as the landing
craft ramp lets loose it’s chains
and a flurry of lead
flies in
and instantly
withers their feeble braggadocio
– leaving a mulch of olive drab
flailing, flapping, floating
in the pink spume.
there’s brains on my pips
as I cry in the marron grass
& fidget with a tinplate clicker
and a map of silk
– strange mementos of dreams
that surface
and scurry away.