by Jack Little
Tynemouth Beach
For dad
“Do you remember the jumpy beach son?”
My dad pointed to some large rocks, used
for protecting the sand from sea.
“You used to play there…”
And I remember the crab pools and cold
salt sea of my days of being four.
Mum would search for sea glass,
while I clambered over castle rocks
and seaweedbed shells
“You don’t see me!” I’d shout
and dad would take my hands and swing
me over continents and back
like Indiana Jones carried on a zephyr
and brought back down to earth with
a particularly crunchy, crash of a wave.
Remains
A rumour swells up like stench,
Blood torn up and gutted
Red and smattered on crumble brick, slick
Bile rising false chords.
Invaded. Disfigured idols
A pulsing throng of brokendown flash cars
Scattered by gaping wounds, and maggot
Fed fat yes-men, businessmen with
Paralyzed, and eaten eyes
Knotted, buckled and annulled by
The smell of Earth scorched misery.
Abandoned rot. And lost.
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Bio: Jack Little (b. 1987) is a British poet living in Mexico City where he runs The Ofi Press, a bilingual online poetry magazine and publishing company which organises regular poetry events. His work has been published in 3:AM Magazine, Warwick Unbound, Calliope Nerve, The Bubble, Eunoia Review and most recently in Blue Pepper Poetry. He also has forthcoming publications with Kerouac’s Dog, Drey, Wasafiri and Bakwa Magazine. In March 2012, Jack read at the Linares International Literary Festival in Nuevo Leon, Mexico. As well as his literary related activities, he also manages the Mexico national cricket team. www.theofipress.webs.com
Art by Judith Shaw
