Saturday, September 1

Gone With Summer

go; the gulls have gone

no longer littering skies in beaks &
pissing cries – taking up the roof or

showering shit over you me new kid
to this little town on the sea

The guano cargo on platforms lay
:one thru four

(no, tired station master,
don’t clean it!) tho you tossed
out the nest scrapped from our
binbags feather twigs & that old
chocolate tin you filled with water

for sea or for drink?
did you sprinkle salt?

they’s gone now cept the one down my road

he’s dead

just a platter
of pebbles that
filter his bones
from the sod
dripping down

he’s left behind while gulls; brothers
sisters mothers occasional fathers; are
over france on some french kid shitting

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