The rocky coast bends
in and out of the cold sea.
From above, a fuzzy line,
as the gulls fly nearer,
folds away,
more illusion
than boundary, less land
more dimension.
It resembles itself,
immeasurable.

I live in a different place.
North or West on a map
but vertical too
through the waves.
They lap at my skull
holding old ideas
and try to push them in.
But I can always tell.
The message's the same,
projected physically
on curved walls
when least expected.

Not far from my pillow,
it talks of loveliness
while I drift under
my pod for survival
against the onslaught
of a technology
no one really gets,
my deep longing
protecting itself
but continuously
and colourfully infected.

The final aim's not
to put people away?
Over there and in here?
The past sold
in mat brochures,
bearded men holding
spears or in linen,
under palm trees,
finger upward
and killing in anger?
When lies turn ugly
the truth is sold as art.

My condition, already bad,
is worsening day by day.
I sail in a desert, in water,
from rain
to the tropic of thunder.
The night sooths
with jewelery eyes.
The day, unlike a sun god
blessing wheat or wine,
oppresses my memory
of a world
slowly unmasked
from a hand-me-down chart.


Jam24