Below Victoria

For J

A loosened thought
was unexpectedly set adrift

like a sea-wetted sandal
sucked into whisked white foam

off foolish seventh wave treaders –
those salt-splashed day trippers –

as my viewfinder caught you blown
and turning to me – iso-fixed

in my camera as it framed that
installation under which you stood

You as my suddenly important art
buffeted upright below an artist’s

weather-required turned response
My portrait of beauty in Brighton

No Eyes

It was not a pup seal
rolling at slow play
but a shingle-ripped
medium-sized dog
without legs or face –
its muzzle stripped
to uncooked meat –
a loose hanging jaw

Each short wave
was enough to turn
its sodden carcass
for further observation
by my macabre eye
to guessed-at details
and a whole back story –
lost at sea – a drowning

Wired

There is barbed wire
on the moon-pulling palm tree

there to deter tourists

and their kids

from photo opportunities

Three dogs piss on two sandcastles
as dusk confuses the high tide shadows
and rich yellow puddles

We swig beers and cocktails
as the squid fisherman departs

A line of LED lights mark
the break neck edge
from this restaurant
to the sea’s revenge.

The Beach

Arrayed like solar panels

but bearing the weight
of sunburnt Russians

these beach beds align
nation unto nation
before the Indian Ocean

bringing equality back
as fat men match six packed
and sagged women
note cellulite on sex objects

To drown the screams of Chinese
I put my headphones on

Black Flags

We aim to steal a shadow
on the blasted sand
of Palmachim Beach,
as we step on seashells

which, for one or two breaths,
threaten to slice
our sand-grabbed soles,
but unlike the bared

honesty of others’ flesh
they hardly achieve offense:
Those barrelled chests
and guts would never grace

the fussy covers of Vogue.
With the quick whistle blow,
and planting of black flags,
the surf is taken from bathers

by overly-fit young men,
bare but for matched shorts,
that uniform of angels,
who sit high in their tower,
above us wave-cut mortals.