Sunday, March 08, 2009

From first to last (with little in between) OR Nights in Adolescence OR Exfoliations

At night the sand is cool and soft,

the wash is loud and

the beach is long and lonely;

It’s no place for girls alone,

I’m told.


I move along the shore,

sometimes,

to test myself and my resolve.

In the dark and cold and empty night,

what’s to fear anyway?

I think to myself,

The dark and empty.


But not always. It’s not always.

Parties, with friends,

with rum,

with music.

With parents away.

With “let’s go down to the beach!”

Okay.


A hand, an arm, a chest,

drag me into phosphorescence,

show me how bright

the water is at night.

A mouth shows me how warm it is as well.


Acquiescence.


The sand clings to my feet.

To my legs.

To my back.

A hand moves up my thigh and through my skirt.

It finds my skin.

I blush. I move. I’m scared!

And I’m excited.


Another drink.


He pushes harder,

‘Come on’

but I’m not sure now.

I push in the other direction,

A slightly panicked, Stop!


‘What’s the problem?’


In daylight I would run to get away,

angry and laughing

(in the light, you can laugh at this).

But now, arms pull me down

whispered words compel me calm,

and fingers intertwine

pantomiming affection.


The morning breaks bright.

The sand grinds against my skin.

The school bell rings.


We run.


And time moves on...


In the dark

I ride my bike along the breaking tide.

I fall into the waves, cut myself and laugh.

My friend gives me her hand and helps me up.

The blood dries against my leg

as we walk the rest of the way,

pushing our bikes though the soft sand into town,

Laughing.


Another night, another time,

we watch the stars

and discuss the pictures in the moon.

He takes my hand in his.

I think his name is Yann.

It could be Marc.

Does it matter?


I'm bored.

I walk him back

and I go on alone,

ankle deep and cold.


Years later, more drinks,

and I’m a pirate.

The rocks cut my skin,

and the waves crash loudly at my feet.

‘Don’t fall!’


More rum.

More sand.


The lights look far away.

So far away.

‘Want to sit for a minute?’

Why not?

I sit.


The sand clings to my feet.

To my legs.

To my back.

A hand moves up my thigh and through my skirt.

It finds my skin.

I blush. I move. I’m scared!

And I’m excited.


On the beach at night,

nothing really changes.

Only hands.


But it’s still no place for girls.

Not girls alone.

3 comments:

  1. Anonymous10:29 PM

    whoah! yeah and...ok but wait, I guess, you should, but might (aaarggh!donn't listen to me, maybe I care) - clever writing, you shit but yeah f$56^78s. there is less but more for a change. write! satch (impressed amongst other things)

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  2. Anonymous11:01 PM

    disregard the 'for a change' as personal- it refers to the immediacy of poetic style which 'i' think (and this the bizarre convolutions of me) is worth cultivating even with prose, relationships, slides, fashion, anger (not that this i wrthwhile) and justification (short but sweet and ovr-bring emphatic). unless riddled by doubt and then this is a matter for contemplation, hedging and god-forbid 'totL RVISN' - i strtin to fell guilty for cloggin your blog (as a word of caution for people out there - do not take sleepin pills and laxetes (misfelt) at the same time (this is not an original thought) this is...if you are swallowing a frog and it gets stuck in your throat (i've heard red wine helps) with precaution that responsible drinking is advised. better a frog in your throat than...I sorry readin your blog too much has influeneced ma' unfettered reaponse. i blame it on the internet, biily.g. for th esoft ware (hghbrow - steve jobs, i think i would have to evolve for him to fuck me up) and billy c for scottish acccccent and (swearing) u2 and bono for bullshit...blame for the descent into boring, I only mntd him to ativate his spyware (whts left but a hyypervent. ego and cransk) sooooorrrry bec msenor satch the hispanic wannbe

    ReplyDelete
  3. Epic!

    You can rant away on here anytime, satch.

    ReplyDelete