This Shore

This shore has rhythm. a fractal beat

On surf and sand. a wave. a wave.

The ding ding, the hum,

This hiss and smoke from manhattan’s mouth is loud

But young. it will pass. shore

Is forever. a wave. a wave.

A wave in wet paint on metal,

Wet orange reflections, captured light set forever.

Wet paint is like brick in this city.

The sky is made of air,

The doors are made of wood,

And the heads are made of paint.

East river water is made of paint.

It’s wet and every night the light

From its twin in concrete waves,

Waves, shows it colour and contour and form

And lets it play; a thick sodium slug

That sticks to the sides, shimmering.

This land has deep vibrations,

Anger and strong footsteps, rumblings

And penetrations and this

Shore-to-shore shake that keeps it

Up. wet, dry, hot, cold, down,

It’s a furious nightlight;

Ding, awash in a river

Going east to an island and floating

Easily on the wind like a gull;

Ding, going east to the ocean and

A gulp, a wash, a river of spit

And an ocean of shouting flotsam.

Paint this city black. paint this city black.

Shout amongst this hum, this hiss

And manhattan’s smoke and mouth your words

So every silent phoneme is a subway tunnel!

Ding, a wash, a gulp, an ocean, a river.

Ding, strong penetrations, footsteps, vibrations.

Ding, thick colour, concrete, night and paint,

Ding, the heads, the doors, the sky is wet.

The city sleeps beneath a pillowed sky

And suffocated hum and hiss and smoke

Can not disturb a wave. a wave.

This city sleeps surrounded by the shore.