304. beside the seaside.


kids today –

look at ’em



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.