Surf's up, dude

"What's that island called?"

"Lundy plain, sign of rain."

"So just like it is everyday then."

Convex combe rippled hillside,
long line of yellow gorse, sheep.

Franz Ferdinand was an Archduke,
assassinated by a Serb at Sarajevo.
That's right. It's where you go to ski.

Waves reach ankle height
a long low curl of stunted surf.

Witches' tits: the life sucked out of them,
infertile, only male doctors scorning competition.

Red gold stripes the grey sea. A fire.

"Pressure treated wood doesn't burn well"

so, in the cold night, we barbecued a barbecue bench:

foot-pumps heaving testosterone
into the glowing wood, oil drum glowing orange.

A spliff is passed between mute singers.

Krazy golf is mulled over, cheerleaders urge songs.

Erskine Childers warns of a German invasion
a gun-running protestant shot
coming back from the pub one night.

Rounders endlessly suggested.

"He's given up farming, going to work as a rep for my father."

Long walks along the sand, a blue kite
diving and rising in the chill grey air.

You bought me an ice-cream.

"Lundy high, sign of dry."

A spliff is passed amongst mute whisperers.

An AS400 forms the centrepiece
of a European-wide network
of XP-embedded thin clients.

Todays mergers are engineering problems.

Redolent wrecks and self-pity
grace bars, lounge on bean bags.

Loiter patterns of a bustard.

Dr Zog's Sex Wax
slipping somewhere between
Woolacombe
and Bell's Bay
via Baja California.

"Oh, you'll go a-waltzing Matilda with me."

"Whatever."