the beach ceased being fun
there’d be fewer people here
body boards folks swimming
families with a picnic
les pompiers watching the beach
then the café came
the first surf school shack
& now
these lean brown stone face people
march along the sand
carrying boards long & short
wet suits in summer
identical rucksacks flip flops hair styles
letting us know
they are real surfers
serious to a man & woman
wearing wet suits when the sea
is 19 degrees
he asks with a smile
knowing I’m going
to be saying
NO
in the hierarchy of arts
glamour glitz world
the ripping off the athletes
poetry is a very low rung
ladies love the troubadour
men the screen femme fatale
the singer the songs
painters have followers
good light garrets to haunt the night
muses to amuse delight
but us
mere flingers of words
ideas on a line
open to interpretation
derision
fame is a rare beast
riches even more elusive
tho’ sometimes
these come after
we are dead
I don’t know now
but when I remember
those cold streets
I grew up on
whether there was colour
everywhere
or everything
really was in black & white
I do know
when I see the reels
the poverty there
rubble on the streets
thick coats clothes for winter
kids playing games with each other
as we had nothing else
except the black & the white
these two guys
wanting to rough camp
be out & about
in the world
riding motorcycles
out in the wind
as soon as the familiar faded
tried to recreate home
couldn’t cope with strange
foods beer gas pumps
languages temperatures
& I tried to ease them
pushing them to drink the water
hydrate stay sensible
look after yourselves
do this right
they managed two nights
& ran away
back to the known
& you learn
you can’t tell people anything
especially
if they can’t listen
fear does that to people
everybody says
they love a good storm
when they
are safe & warm
love a great story
of love hate desire
late night blood horror
tidied up cosy not torn
enjoy the hearing of derring do
swashbuckling pirates
swords flailing to & fro’
when their ships
are safe in harbour
not out at sea
seeking a safe port
I tried reading him
him being a mans man
in the poesy
& I tried
stumbling over the lines
he birthed over the page
great gallumping stones
dark hewn colours
black as the pit of night
& I looked for love
humour to gleam thru’
found that wanting
such a serious man
seems who took himself so
no moss no lichen here
but fortresses of the deep
never using one word
when ten ten dollar words
would do
the ayuntamiento
has cleared the streets
repaired the cobbles
put in asphalt over rock & sand
burro’s are rarely seen now
here in the pueblo
we never get to hear the rattle
of a pony or donkey cart
& that spot in the corner
of the ancient falling barn
that dog piss corner
where paquito used to stand
half hidden in moon shadow
looking up at polas’ window light
has been replaced
by a new apartment block
Pacqo & Pola have three kids
working the coast
we are modern now
have all the latest things
yet
yet
she tried to cut in line getting grocery
& I sent her back pointing the way
now she sees me as an angry man
being easier to see passion
in another that way
especially this dark stranger
the anger you’re feeling
is yours n yours alone
passing off your projections
on a lost man on his own?
I see the sneer start to grow
suposin’ just supposin’ I say
I see in you a lost love
somebody stopped you
from being who you wanted to be
& you feel somethin’ here
reminds him of me?
I’m not that kind of guy
so if you will kindly
as I know you are a good person
I’ll just be passing on by
& I saw the look on her face
the beginning of aw really
maybe this guy gets me
but I’d passed by then
into the long shadows
nobody needing this dark preacher
off to find a better storm
I’ve lost those pictures of you
when you had love & lust
in yours
as you looked at me
but my eyes
my memories
hang on to such times
far better than pictures
stowed in drawers
stuck in picture books
& my eyes my memories
wipe out the pain
from your mouth
those things you did
so when I picture you
my eyes are better
than a camera
anytime
told us
right from the off
schooling had a cut line
we were bad boys
up to no good
as we stood wondering
wiping snot on our short pants
do they mean us?
& one of us since
has done jail
one is still inside
another fills his veins
full time
& one of us
got out quick as he could
the others who made the cut line
some went on to do good
while others found drunk
beat on their wives n kids
& I’m not saying
those teachers
made any of this happen
but when you run a cut line
right from the off
make it about rich & poor
when your time comes
I hope to make you
take it to the lord
