Dockland - rewrite

Had another go at making music. I say 'music' - I mean passing the time. Quite pleased I managed to keep something minimal though.

Vapours.

A detuned radio and the howl of a banshee
Pixels bleeding green, brown and purple,
blotch, dot and smear.
The bunker door is closed.
Against the horizon
where nothing good can be seen

Bastle

To eke,
to scratch
to scrape out an existence
on the edge, in the margin
beyond the horizon.

The sour taste of fruit
picked too early
The soreness of digging
land that will not yield.
Failing, infertile, acidic.

Respite from wind,
temporary, brief.
Crouched behind drystone,
wishing like a madman.
that wild land could cure a wild mind.

Around the headland.

Exploding from gorse
Forked tail, tumbling
Glide, dip and burst upward
Playful flight.
Gracefully carving invisible shapes

Scrag and clag on a black rock shoreline
Surly and beautiful
Lazy turbine rolling
Flag limply hanging
Buoy rocking softly

The water's languid advance
Gently inevitable.

Dockland

Thinking of a photograph
I try to drive towards the sunset.
Veering off course
chasing a golden moment
in which the purple haze sky
explodes behind cranes and razor wire
burning up the sea
I glance from the traffic
down long lines of glazed brick terraces
framing the dark drama of back lit clouds
and the promise of a shoreline
but by the time I can turn
I am too late
heaven's fire is extinguished
the deep blue of early night has fallen
and I am on earth again.

Granite

Loops repeat.
Slices of life.
Butchered.
Prime cuts.
Of sensation
Cleaved into
Neat shapes.
Gorge yourself
Tear into
Raw flesh
Drive thru
24/7
Feed
Insatiable.
No one cares
Like you.

Ultraviolet

Straw dry.

Tinderbox.

Angry.

Stamping.

Kicking.

The stable door.

is bolted

but the hinges

are loose

Clouds of dust,

droning wasps,

biting flies.

The sun is high

and the tap still drips