The beach reaching into blue glass
Firing our feet into red pottery
You lay with your tits out
Feeling great as a cow on holiday
Lovers canoodle in the left eye
Dogs pant rampant in your right ear
A thought swims how can you be a writer
When there’s bread to be won?
That sun is cooking you something proper
Baking your eyeballs black
Those dogs look snarling hungry
Your tits are shrivelled paps
No wonder there’s no milk in your words
Your smooth human clay is drying cracked
Get a sexy beer from a beach comber
Dribble it into the hot glass
Swim out
Think about possibly going back
It is always a possibility
