Sousse, Tunisia

A man died with his head in the sand today,
a notification pushed that image to my eyes
with bridge of palm into bridge of nose close handling,
made me stare upon congealed sand and loose limb brain
and I still don't believe it happened.

I'm keeping cries close over here,
muffling coughs into towels as the world falls apart
because out that door is behind the wardrobe you never saw,
Biff, Chipper and Kipper holding fort on bedside table airtime airports,
all whilst newsfeeds and jetstreams transport footprint flotsam to far off shores
where no one really cares for the marks it left,
too busy bitching 'bout some gal in San Francisco,
stabbed at gun point down the back of some Home Depot.

Under that parasol he slept,
a bullet in his head for doing nothing
hurting no one
and I'm on the toilet thinking,
stop your self from being so hard on yourself:
thus is life and all the web it'll tangle itself in.
Then my ribs turned to barbecue fingers and wet serviettes,
blood I thought ink swelled into debts and hyphens I thought were friends,
I sunk forward into a slump,
Flump over easy into downward trend,
singing some first song heard at birth and blind to it ever since
until then,
page one of Twitter.

Can we go now, please?
these warm French mornings are filling me up,
thick milkshake up tunnel straws,
tailback plumber's mop pushed through shot glass
and shatter
into pat-me-on-the-back, gummy bears against brick walls in mattress van dreams of a no seat belt driver going 70 in a 5 zone.

I'm not a driver nor an adjudicating passenger,
but if I was
take me, mid-morning, to a storm linen beach and lead me to the summit breaks,
there I'll listen with you
just with my head in the sand.