i crawled under a sink to write this.
beach towns give me
the fucking creeps.
everything is sand powdered.
everything is tweeted,
previntaged for instagram.
i never wanted to be
so far away from industry.
on the first night,
two students
of medicine were arrested
for waving their genitals
in an empty stairwell.
they spent four hours
in the bin,
but they attested to months,
years worth of
done time
that pestered sleeping
girls into laughing
fits.
everything has an
ocean themed name.
seacrets was where
substance went to die.
a bradley nowell caricature
of white washed reggaeton
swayed easy on
a bamboo stage
and i'm thinking
where do you get off,
you dread-locked
frauds,
rock and roll replicas
of sorority radio?
how does it feel
to bask and sweat
in the beams of
other's successes,
sweeping fingers precalloused
by unsuccessful three chord combos,
clutching artillery limp
as beached wood?
i needed another whiskey
or more pot.
it was on the beach
though
when i finally
attained ease,
warming my
skin of permanent
winter under the midas
touch of the sun.
for the first time
all weekend,
i didn't require
the aid of multiple
substances
to muster a smile
or a positive attitude.
i relished in being
half naked, blithe like
the rest of the town.
i wanted to be golden,
fist pumping to the same
driving beat, trapped in
an endless summer
of open toed shoes
and bacardi frozen mixers.
i loathed the
beach as a child,
but it called to me now,
softening for my shoulders
and flat footed
dips into the sand.
later i'd say
"beach towns are populated
by fucking aliens,"
but
for now,
there is only the sea
whispering, mocked
by gulls.
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