Beach Life

The land washes into the sea, an eternal moment of regression, digression, destruction and rebirth. Dreams are born here, at the edge of consciousness, there between that space of you and me.

Collective unconsciousness fantasises about a day when she can break through, from the idealised to the realised, there to understand suffering and embrace mortality; for only when your time is limited does a moment matter.

This isn’t poetry, she sneered, it isn’t even good! I could only shrug, while I fantasised about a thousand moments of murder. I’d curse her and she’d ask – but why does my opinion matter? – I’d hesitate. She’d get away. Outwitted, by my own imagination.

Father Time had lost track of time. He could have sworn he’d put her on the table, by his beer glass; but now she was gone. He could still feel the sand trickling away, he could still hear the continuous rush of inevitability, a dull roar that only he couldn’t ignore; but the hourglass was gone. She’d probably found somebody younger to spend herself with. Another beer, bartender, for tonight might never end.

The smoke from a single cigarette dances the tango over the ashtray.

They moved among each other, but lived different lives. White and Black swirling in and out of view, but never really into each other’s existence. A barrier of derision, stereotyping and miscommunication colouring both their lives.

The eyeless corpse stares back.