The Beautiful Dead

Lapping broth rubbing on layers of silt. Brown bubbles swallow sticks and straw chasing tides of converging ripples. This is the dawn of the day of May, Holes pocket the greasy mounds and moss furs the southern facet. Ridges scar wet wounds in the soft soil and chunks of cake littered with pebbles and seaweed candles. Trickling rivers seep tiny streams back into the water. Relocate their direction to satisfy the slope downward to the sea. This body, mass of unity, is the womb of the natural world. And the shoreline holds the birth of all things.

Scientific Journalism

Ref.14

Ref.13

Pier.

Hundreds of pairs of unwashed hands

Stickily licking dirty coins

The madness resides within adrenaline

As winnings tip their eyes they roll back

Geriatric cardigans brush against everyday machines

Eyes remain dull yet their hopes are crossed

Twenty score is at a penny’s fall

The automator tinkles in their favour

Their relief escapes sound, scent or vision

The rush is felt beneath the ground

Between tidal waves and idle planks

The win is simple the kiss a la mort

Satisfied they slump against the glass

Crank.

Aborous veins dilate, submerged in saline.

Brown metal gives way under force.

Friction dances on ungreased axles

Caked spindles turn in rusted circles

Loose filings fall on salty ground