Palm trees pixellate in the Pacific breeze,

While champagne stains lapels

Sticky for the Malibu sand,

Aromatic for the crystal chambers.

We tut and promise to clean it off,

But we never do.



And tongues,

Bursting with sycophantic candy,

Slurp sun-baked dreams off the pavement,

Outside this absurd theatre.

Serpentine eyes watch each other in expectation,

Of flight through the doors and into the darkness,

Of abandonment of the wet organs

Cooking on the concrete.

But none of us ever have.


Every night, the giant ants,

Reason with me at the motel,

Their antennae twitch in the moonlight,

Becoming more furious on my pillow,

Coming ever closer to my eye in hope,

Of communicating their dreadful secret,

Until they give up and retreat,

Betwixt carpet and skirting board.

They think that they can make me leave,

But I never will.