At Om Beach

The undone world with its pink lotus moon, sits on the sand smoking what could be coconuts. Friends recant stories and try to kill memories on the rocks. Cinnamon smells, ankle bells, shimmering voices and ribald LEDs displace the moonlit waves. The brow rings and tattoos on drained bodies, ebb with the tide. Puppies snatch attention from twirled moustaches as caffeine incites me to dance. The wind pairs Canna and plain vanilla tobacco in the same shacks, and they breed glowing ships that float out of the misty horizon. Mosquitoes suck on barbecued skin while intellect is distracted by Bollywood. Glass clinks and plastic strips. At the end of days, when nostrils are deaf and eyes tired, music guides the ears to dreams.

On the rocks

What is it like to drown in a glass of whiskey?
Jump in and swim to the rocks at high tide. Let the sea spit at you. Allow yourself to be ruminated. Let the voluminous waves roll you in their stickiness and dash you against the hardness. Let the spirits of the sea seek your assimilation into their forces crushing the rocky bastions into millennia old sand. Grope in a bed of knives without handles. Breathe brine and palpitate. The moment your fingers get confidence in a hold and the salts anoint the painful cuts, the rocks spit you back with equal vengeance. Your soles are slit and the soul looks for someone to give up his life for you. It may be a Good Friday, but Easter is far far away.