Monday, September 5, 2016

Do we torture what we don't like the look of ?


Prostrate on the beach,
a slop of sea pulse,
a glob black as chewed tobacco
fallen from the lip.

My mother said -
the sea is sick,
it's breath on the beach is bad
and its puke is scattered
all over the sand.

She said
all its pin points are boiling,
its stomach heaves;
that it will yellow our skin
if it gets half a chance.

Then this morning,
when something with small eyes
came out of the sea,
I pelted stones at it
till the tractor came.

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