Harmonious dialects of sunlit nature
constitute but a fraction
of the conversation amongst high hilly pastures.
Dreadfully chaotic and contradictory
sur-realities disturb but a fragment
of one side of a smoked towering moon-shaft.
Neither cartographer nor mystic
draw upon the whole impossibly precise
mere impressions emphasised by
We can do nothing now
the cool heated argument,
a fight disguised as dance.
But a problem solved briefly
by coin toss and a throaty yelp,
but a solution dissolved on a tongue
snugly hidden within coastal dwellings.
The bottle of brown honey calms us
and the soggy paper enlivens our souls
by way of colour
and pixels on pixels.
We unhinge ourselves off of the cliff face by morning
and the machinery and armpits of the labourers have
already begun to sweat, as have the sun tanned terrestrials
wrapped in fluorescence,
running back and for the sake of exercise,
The American suggests “breakfast!”,
such a name for a compilation
of food mapped out by the time of day
seems simply absurd
particularly given our current location.
I politely refuse.
I buy a beer and drink it on the ferry
on my way to anywhere but home
I try to ignore the colour coded networks
stuck on the wall.
I pour down a big gulp of beer with closed eyes
it flows and spreads down my pipes
as if to say
“you’ve survived another one you silly bastard”
and I smile.