way I was immediately aware of|| the grinding sun poking over the waves. ||It’s on time that’s something. Not that I have a dial myself only Lope has record of|| time but for the briefest moment, the yellow ||backed me into myself I was on holidays with a boy I’d forgot||ten about how it looks, the sea from the sand || no, no, happy times, I won’t deny it, and the boy’s laughter it played like a scale, and fit right in|| with my old man’s trannie barking out the form|| of the dogs the track the smell of grey bacon crackling in my ears the pork fuzz ||going through my whole body and I woke, I ||woke the cloy of the local Ross on my nose….. Wills? He’s quiet. The yellow. There it|| is, the sea from the sea. Only view for miles. ||No, no, shouldn’t let myself get dreamy, it’s the start, isn’t it? Don’t look forward to dreams, ||Lope says they’re your quickest ticket.. to Tantalust. Not an idea that I am|| family with personally but I ||mull it over when I get a second. Not much time for mulling though now I’m|| protecting the boy watching…. over him, if you will. I try not to dwell|| on that especially as the boy’s so|| squint and slumped, who put him in these glad rags? No, no, it’s none of my business ||I must admit that’s nasty scarring down my ||arm from last night ……..price of being popular I expect. The boy does that make me his || father? I’m having a peek at the new||est ones over fifty stacked on each side … left, right, front, back who stacked these men? No|| official word Lope says, you must let it go they’re just sandbags against ||the surf should wave em. In my humble opine I must admit, the|| rot and stink is on the rise, reminds me of —|| no, no, the nose gives you ideas against your will like hot-potting your mate only it’s not ||quite on, is it? Mon Suet’s tin of wine, did||n’t know they put wine in tins still, there’s only enough for no, no, we must make figures, ||tallies who’s who, what’s what. The fallen heap of|| soldiers juiced and lolling, a sprawl of manky cats if you ask me. I wouldn’t spend my days and|| nights sleeping, waking, bothering men it’s a ||fever they carry. Arms on their arms. I must assess all claims. Lists. Tins are rattling|| Mon Suet’s whine. Lope’s standing | 261 by wouldn’t be surprised if he measures with|| the eye still no wine for Wills, unless I ||give it. But rationing? In heat that drags your skin off no road, it steams in two seconds.|| I slurp mine fast it’s not right, is it? But|| Wills is quite out and I must admit, I need the strength I already have one lame leg, it’s not|| exactly fair but I shouldn’t start ||best to focus on results one, my makeshift sail, a bit of a dishrag but some||thing at least, a white hand on the horizon ||two, I admit it, my platform’s a real beauty a world above the wave slap ||and tickle, the bloody riots three, Wills? ||Stop rattling on my tin stop licking his snail tongue is sticking to the black metal, daubing|| it against some fire his skin is turn||ing a little, to be honest, if I wasn’t colourblind, I’d say close to puce.|| Soon people are thronging us complaining, sobbing inspecting wrecks || disputing measurements searching in pockets for lockets, crumbs, marbles I move ||away, stumping the old leg at right angles|| Wills at hand. Good. I’ll kick and boot. I will, I warn but just to show the boy is my prior||ity life, and then the boy. That’s right. It’s|| a surprise, but everyone’s bending to me waves of green rise up I’m on|| the soap box, the boy is quiet…… damp-faced… the sun boring my eyes yellow, || he’s fluttering his thumbs in butterflies. I have to hold him my leg|| is aching. I put Wills in its nothing space|| The crowd is jumping. Little waves foam over my feet I push back the pork fuzz… Wills is mak||ing a thin strangled sound. I look above. I ||always look above there she is, the white sail wrapping around itself… she’s a bit un||sure of her surrender slashed Lope says. || Open mouths. Gasps. I don’t know, but I must admit we’re drifting Wills but it would pay off || to imply towards land.
Mon Suet
Burn hot in some infernal kitchen. Some kind ||of…that little worm and his worming friend creeping ||this way or that way always about my back sniffing as if they had the sense ||the sun is pounding pudding chop pudding slop|| I hear it the rays are going in the voices singe and sear spit roast my flesh I move I ||move the sun spots two little piggys sniggering where are they?||How can I see? The rays are now raying me || Pork it over mon crackling, mon creeping suer.