Copyright (C) 2003 by Stephen Oliver.
te-washed room peeled,
flaked, wooden shutters opened
on the small harbour quay -
a restaurateur tipped his garbage
casually into the Mediterranean.
A night of fish bones, cigarette butts,
bobbed in an oily slick. West,
into shadow, Ant’nošs anchored off
the headland, outboard silenced,
dynamite exploding like an octopus
under a shoal of fish beneath.
Alcatraz not Minoan ruins.
Morning mist hangs its garden off
Golden Gate bridge. Men in
fog loom large. Fog or ram's horn?
Container ship - warrior barge,
passes under with another load of
Japanese cars to feast upon
freeways. 'Straight guys are at a
premium' you said. (Or so I
overheard). Seven months under
your roof in your bed. I never got
to Texas - never hit Route 66.
Marooned on my Isle, deep within
that lustful, solitary confinement.
Do words bring to mind flat
sided buildings, cliff face, waterfall?
Each emotion to its respectiv