Coastal Erosion

Chris Nelson MBE

chrisnelson61

The ocean took its share –

Call it coastal erosion

If you wish –

And swept the soft away;

Bedrock pillars stood tall

Unaware of their solitude

And pointlessness

Hard-faced against the tide;

And winds slide shards

Like the paper cuts we felt

Trace lattice lines inside

The bruises no-one else can see;

Saved from the roughness out at sea

Our chains our punishment

For wanting more

Abandoned now to the birds;

Tossed like an unmade bed

Or pummeled like an insomniac pillow

The ocean unerring in its mission

A statement to the landscape

Retreating by inches

Its children lost to the low

Hidden beyond the sea-fog which sweeps

Like convulsive currents

Pretending all is new – a clean mind;

Breaking up or breaking down

The oceans takes us all –

Call it coastal erosion

If you wish –

With vacant smiles

And drooling delusion

It takes us all.

©…

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Creep

Treacle Heart, the quintessential londoner echoes every writer’s desperation up on Melancholy Hill

Treacle Heart

Writers, whether deliberately or unconsciously, seek each other out in crowded pubs on cold Wednesday nights. I thought you were alright-looking but probably just another creep. While I wrote line after line, frenzied, only stopping to down a jar or take a little bump off a key, I could feel your eyes on me.

(I am partial to entertaining creeps because I like their pathetic little faces
and their eyes that say, “I can’t believe she’s talking to me.”
They are, however, too easy to manipulate and usually
end up boring me: for someone who does not believe
in boredom, this is an inconvenience to say the least)

I asked you if you could keep an eye on my table while I went out for a smoke
and said, “Make sure my drink doesn’t get cleared,” and you said, “or spiked…”
and that was it.

You were a writer for…

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IN A PARIS HOTEL ROOM

hijacked amygdala features some of the very best talent on wordpress, head on over there and check into A Paris Hotel Room with the brilliant art & lit duo Mark & Christine Renney.

hijacked amygdala

Chris R-1-93 Image by Christine Renney

When it happened they were away from home. The smell was so invasive that, for a moment or so, Harris was unsure of where he was. Lifting the thin sheet he looked down at himself and at Geraldine, sleeping soundly on her side. He remembered then that he was in a hotel room in Paris and although the smell didn’t lessen it did suddenly seem a little more bearable. He was abroad, in a foreign country and this was something alien.
Convincing himself that it was coming from outside he slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Geraldine, crossed to the glass doors and stepped out onto the tiny balcony. It had been raining, the air was still fresh and the street below was still wet. In the cars’ headlights the moist air glinted.
The smell didn’t dissipate and at first he couldn’t locate it…

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Fall Through Mirrors

Fall through theusedlife’s iridescent mirrors & let yourself get lost in the labyrinth of her immaculate poetry.

The Used Life

i awoke that morning 
with a fantasy like any other
namely, a golden rod poking holes
in the clouds and i 
walking a mile of 
	dropped jaws &
		hanging clocks &
			lavender-drenched tides
to a castle in a tree that bore 
	no roots and
	waved an iron flag 
like a mechanical rib 
or a stale bird
	trembling on the
	lip of a volcano

every line is a world and 
	every number is a logic that falls 
	dead at the doors of our senses

there was a word for the face
that spoiled the dream, the line 
that dotted the i, the precision with which i wept at the departure of my sun-drenched crown we must forget what is supposed to be in order to express what is croaked the lizard at dawn, her two fingers dancing on the chessboard sister of the parakeet, clone of the man in a…

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