When you eat a Cornish pasty
on the beach
the salt from the sea
coats the pastry
in that moment as you take a bite.
If it was a Disney short, the animation before the movie,
the salt in the air would
fall in love with the pastry flake as they entered the
unimportant, even inanimate, mouth
and they’d live out their days in culinary matrimony
in the hot springs of
my stomach acid.
What I’m saying is:
even a cheese & onion pasty is paradise when you’re by the sea.
The sea air
makes my lungs feel clear
like you, or a cigarette.
My tarot reader told me to give the sea my grief; she can hold it in a way I can’t.
Waves collapsing on your feet & memory foam sand warming your soles would take your grief away whether you chose it or not, if we’re truthful
In a Los Campesinos! song, they lament in semi-annoying Brighton indie accents: the sea is a good place to think of the future.
I think now I know what they mean.
I Think I Might Be A Beach Goth
for all my wont,
the sun does make me happy.
I like the sand at the water’s edge, with clear salty sea running over it in vein patterns, and I like the dry warm sand rested on top of the whole beach.
I like the sparkly bits in amongst the grains, glittering like - I guess - glitter.
I quite like the darker, sodden sand under the dusting of dry, and I don’t mind the clouds of sand that billow under the surface of the sea.
The sand I don’t like is the indents, walking off the beach.
Eat me alive: the cry of
the oyster & me.
There’s not too much to be punk about on holiday in Cornwall -
unless, of course, you too believe in the truth: the greatest act of resistance
is joy.
<3 <3 <3 xxxxxxxx