The Wave

Water rushes through my sinuses, cleansing my nostrils like a nasal saline enema.
A soft whoosh portends the dull thud as board hits skull with the ferocious power of Poseidon's rage.
I emerge, bloody but unbowed, and set upon catching the next violently crashing set.

So much for good intentions.

It seems no matter how hard or fast the paddle, I am forever destined to be churned like so much milk in the froth, rag-dolled and spun heels over head twice, thrice, and again.

The energy sap is a drastic one, realised in the seemingly impossible slog against the current as I drudge body and board back into the line up, determined to make one last push for glory.

Here we go. This is it.

I see my chariot forming a short way off, a wall of green rising from the deep.
The edge curls, and my heart quickens as the water is suddenly crested with a thousand white stallions, thundering towards the shore.

Here we go. This is it.

PADDLE! My brain screams in perfect sync with the onlookers. I oblige, forcing my shoulders to serve their turn long after they are gone.
I engage in powerful, rapid strokes, propelling my board along. I check over my shoulder at the onrushing wave.

This is it. Here we goOOooooooo.

I am lifted by the racing swell, and sent skidding at a rate of knots.

Heart pumping, eyes blinking, seize the moment.

Arms extend. Toes scrabble for grip. Adrenaline courses through me, and it feels as though each limb, muscle, and ligament are acting independently, unaffected by each other or the core.

I pop up slowly, my tired body riddled with lactic. The back foot hits the board, and I bring the front forward.

Poor placement. Bad grip.

The board, still charging forward, vanishes as my foot slides across it. I fall, landing with a hard slap on my back, which groans under the stress of impact.

I am done, and attempt the brief limp to shore utterly drained and devoid of vitality. I narrowly avoid being grounded on the rocks.

Thus ends my brief surfing career, enveloped in ignominy and pain.

Old Friends

Two piles of stones sit like old friends, stacked upon golden sand, the ashes and remnants of their fellows. Their conversation is silent, drowned out by the repeated, soothing and methodical crash of breaking waves as the tide rolls in and threatens their very existence.

The afternoon sun peeks occasionally through the haze, adding a fiery glow to the impossibly blue water light-years below and a deceptive heat to the harsh April air. Droves of tourists have come and gone, and the coast is alive with only the sound of the roaring sea and the random calls of a few passing gulls.

The tide edges closer, and the stones maintain their silent vigil, awaiting the fate that befalls us all.

Modern Life

The economy, or so they say,

shall have its time another day, and

fighting back against the grain,

return once more, with strength again.

A job market less bare is now a mad scrabble

To win the contest, and to beat the rabble:

Qualifications, interests, and aptitude tests.

Passions, promos, past employers.

Questions, queries, soul-destroyers.

We leave our hopes in the hands of the senate

Cineri gloria sera venit.
Fame to the dead comes too late

and yet who are we to change our fate?

We are too ignorant to bear the brunt

Damnant quod non intellegunt.
They condemn what they do not understand.

And so we buy the latest Brand

of bullshit fashion, culture, politik

in the hope, one day, of becoming siick.

Like, share, tweet and favourite,

blindly follow, love it, crave it.

Saturation has us screaming out

for entertainment with more clout

and yet we face a desperate future

a gaping wound we cannot suture

as generations now and next

avoid real life and favour texts.

Sunday: a journey

I trudge the slow trudge home, joining an ever-swelling throng of defeated Sunday soldiers, boarding troop carriers and heading off to the next billing. The intimidating, too bright sunlight lends a deceptively warmish yellow tint to this cold winter morning, and the train rumbles on through leafy suburbs, their fields and woodlands a life-affirmingly vibrant green against the tired, milky-eyed sky.

Occasional vapour trails appear as bloodshot veins shown in negative, and even the great orb itself is an obscure, amorphous blob, unfathomable light years away.

The doors slide open.

I step out into the cold, bleak day, surrounded by my fellow revelers, each huddled and shivering against the fierce breeze and their internal demons.

The odd family group stand nearby, clearly appalled at the state of these weekend rockstars, some of the warmer-hearted dads allowing a pang of nostalgia to take them back to a simpler time, a care-free age where such gross excess and indecency was their routine.

The ferocious wind pierces thick overcoats and seeps through chunky pullovers with the malice and sting of a hundred steel blades in soft skin. I glance to my left and spare a brief moment's though for the few scantily-clad slappers tottering their way along the platform, a hazy memory of recent intimacy their only shield against shame and weather.

Refuge is sought and briefly discovered on the connecting service, and my ice bloc hands are flooded with painful warmth as my journey enters its final phase. This steamy hub of humanity features those reasonable, sensible (,boring) beings venturing out for the day, or travelling home from afar. I feel at last like an imposter, as though I am falling through the bottom of my high, regaining normality and failing to disguise my inner turmoil. I really need a drink. I feel like an impostor, an unwelcome, chaotic presence gatecrashing this world of order and structure.

This transition portends my return to the realities of the edge of this day. Monday is soon upon us, and the sweeping view of the CBD as the train races by only serves to solidify the dread. It sits like concrete in my guts, weighing me down.

"We are approaching our final stop".

This day burnt briefly bright, the green flash before the week's impenetrable darkness.

Je Suis Ahmed

A quiet Parisian backstreet, enlivened only by a running engine
and gunfire.

An image beamed around the world.
A totum in the war for free speech.

A lone brave man, lying prone on the ashphalt,
facing down evil
in the knowledge of certain death.

I do my duty because I am a gendarme.
I do my duty because I am a good man.

Je suis Français.
Je suis Muselman.
Je suis Ahmed.

Je Suis Charlie

Who would have thought that a few little doodles could inspire such hatred?

Cold-blooded murder, was it really provoked
by a few clever Frenchmen's satirical poke?

Fear spread through Paris at the speed of light,
But we can't let the terrorists win this fight.
Revenge attacks are just what they crave,
But the the people of France must stand tall and be brave.

Remember the artists and all that they've given.
Remember the radical changes they've driven.
Their biting satire and taboo-smashing content
was delivered with verve, they've no need to repent.

Remember Cabu, and all that he stood for.
Remember Tignous, with his drawings so raw.
Remember Wolinski, how he raised the bar,
and then think of Charb, who always took things too far.

The cartoonists' response has been swift and been just,
The strength of the pencil used to remind us
not to discriminate on the basis of race
or of religion, or the shape of a face.

This issue is not one of France versus Islam
but rather the fight between terror and freedom.