Price of Paradise

Listen to gulls popping and fishermen snoring on the pier.

Lie shirtless in a bed under a tall window with long curtains

and roll lazy cigarettes. Listen to the radio as the sea breeze rolls in

and stuffs salts and fish gut stink deep into burnt, red nostrils.

Sit up when suddenly the afternoon whispers die and the sands shuffle.

Look. See the crowd round the washed, bulbous white-yellow belly

that grinds the beach with each wave as hermit crabs run up her bloated legs.

Watch the sea cough your trash right back up to you.

Lay back down, slowly, and reach between the mattress and the wall.

Feel the cold comfort of that glass bottle, that saved Spanish brandy.

Open it. Take a big swig--burns good, doesn't it? Now light up.

Yeah, paradise always hurts someone a little bit.


Return top