Perched on the ancient shoreline where
all the beauty of your sterile love
within the salty wasteland scrub
flows within me. Here, where a crazy child,
a fallen angel pays homage in this
her last pilgrimage of dust.
Oh God, it is despair.
The fishermen have their backs to a dying core
a structure spawned from yesterday's daydream
heated, baked, parched
yet now enshrined - the thin salt spray.
You said blow stigma from water
Not drawn from the sea, who are you anyway?
I am sick, can't you see ?
Dying from the corporeal chemistry of my diseased mind.
I need to buy a wooden house
in the great shadow of nuclear awe
spend the last gasped hours of life with death.
