Monday Training

At the beach
On a winter's Monday
There are mothers
Coaxing tiny staggering goats across the sand
There are couples
Hunched over greasy bouquets of butcher's paper
There are fuzzy pear-shaped whales
Modesty straining against lycra sheaths

 

And there are fourteen men
Facing seaward along the shore
Some in shorts
That would make the word proud
And they are gathered here today
To partake of the endorsements
And the fame
And the large-bosomed doe-eyed accessories
Who care not at all for their toil

 

A six foot four full forward
Breaks free of his casuals
In the wan glare
Reveals a pristine expanse of arable land…
             Before pulling on a pair of boardies

 

He glances behind him
For perverts and prudery
And then rushes with his brothers
Into the foam

 

Reviews

[Hawksmoor]

Ah...I've. Damn.

There are some many f*****g GREAT things in this piece that I'm gonna have to come back to it after another read or two to get my thoughts straight on it.

Damn, dude. Your poetry is sick.

You are beyond talented. I can see that right now, at the strat of my reading your writing.

Look for future words on this.

Hawksmoor...From The Bleed.