Tripping

Death pinioned arms,
a needle nicks a wasted vein.
silence rises like a slow soft sea.
Drifting on the current of morphine.

Close eyes, cold florescence
glows to Africa’s golden sun.
Through the thin layer.
heat washes wind weathered skin.

A ship wreck.
A bleached ruin of scarred ribs
anchored by broken bones
to this dry and sterile sand.

The scent of sea salt,
parquet deck pitching
under numb feet.
A gull shines white and grey

Framed by blue of sky
and green of running tide.
She screams her intentions
along her deep domain

Bow slices the silver surge
into painted porcelain pieces.
The thunder of spuming sail
Answers the wailing northerlies.

Becalmed off Iceland,
the stink of volcanic ash.
Cod, big as basking sharks,
snow scented sharpness,

Air bites blushes raw red.
Energy pulses along this meridian,
Floating west of day and east of night.
The aurora shimmers in liquid black.

Nerves stir along his gnarled spine.
The sky recedes to stipple.
Open eyes,
a ceiling fan rotates,

blades orbit a pre-nova star.
a spider swings from a stalactite.
Paralysed he flies again
sailing stippled ceilings to land’s end.

-Dave Kavanagh

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