z
I masturbated vigorously over the drift wood.
Toiled.
Stone and rubble.
Centuries of devastation.
Wind and rain.
Rock.
Water.
Behind me.
Turn around.
Past present future.
Every moment is now.
The father, the son, and the Mister Licky.
My holy ghost.
There are three of us, on the same plane were all is continuous.
Dying flowers.
Lost words.
No more stories.
Behind me.
Turn around.
Ejaculate.
Lost seed.
Generations removed from one another. Fake histories.
I came suddenly, violently on to the drift wood. Screams. Leave it there. Lost seed. Something else will find it.
Turn around.
Last of last chances.
I turned around. The hotel was in flames. Houses were in flames. The whole strand. Mister Licky.
I did not see him.
Ashes.
Smoke.
Turn around.
The sea.
Wet feet on the shingle.
Go in again.
My father and mother.
My daughter.
My son.
Go in.
We were all there. But each one stood alone. Separate from the other.
I could not touch them.
I could not talk to them.
Smells.
I touched my hands.
Lifted them.
To my nose.
Each thing going back to its beginning.
—Licky, I shouted.
Behind you.
Behind me.
The fire blazed on.
By now, the whole front of the strand was gripped together, in some collective trauma.
Water water everywhere.
I am you.
But they would not die. Not today. Not this time. There had been enough deaths. Enough killings. Enough of the primeval trauma.
Of course, I had played my part. Of course.
No.
Tomorrow, when they woke, or thought they did, they would be freer, I assumed.
But I was wrong.
This was them.
This great big burning mass. This conflagration.
This was them.
I turned around and looked into the water.
There would be no more stories. No more discoveries.
But.
But one.
