funny how you grow out of things: i used to enjoy reading poems about seasons, but back then i was obsessed with the Romantics. my appreciation has shifted solely to their more difficult works rather than the wet-through lyrics they wrote to make some cash. i wrote this lyric to be in as un-Romantic a mood as i could muster. (all photographs by me).
it is the time of year tourists pullulate
the beaches white hot with vitamin D like shredded sea
sponge regenerated from its individual cells,
& season their lacklustre skin with the salt of the sea.
the ocean which still cannot speak
in a language we can understand, a sea that child
like ughs & ahhs complaints to us in broken
waves of onomatopoeia : my larynx must be healed!
& i sat observing them when of a sudden
a lack of horizontal fix took place & tourists’ necks
distended from their shoulders so that heads
stretched to the tattered clouds like busts of lighthouses on a scissor lift.
at first i blamed the finger of the sun’s prod
for altering the picture of my world to that of an old TV set
with an over used, dysfunctional cathode rod
making people’s limbs spool like a BBC debate;
but it was them : a changing picture
rather than a picture of change & i’m unsure if worth
the salt that signals an emotional report
& governs the traffic of our cells, nerve to nerve.