THE DEBRIS SHORE

the earth is hot and the earth is dead and the surf is the colour of stains and nudges the debris shore.

old davy was mad and crazy and he was sick and maimed and he was garrulous and convincing.  i walk to the beach.

there is no one else to convince and there is no one else to go. there is no one else.  

old davy was dead this morning and old davy got buried in a shallow grave dug with a rusty shell of metal and old davy is wrapped in the only blanket i could spare.

the fields are wet and the fields are steaming and the fields arent fields anymore and hold dense puddles of thick sludge rain where there was once was maize and wildflower.

the sea wall is crumbled and the sea wall is scrawled on.  the words are despairing and the words are threatening and the words are all very faded and whole letters have crumbled into the filthy sand unsaying themselves.

my bag is full and my bag is dirty and my bag is laid in the lee of petrified sludge the better for me to be quiet and for me to do as old davy said.

it is like old davy said and it is strange that old davy knew and it is an unsettling event in a land of unsettling events where there once was streets and order.

there is nothing for me to loose and there is nothing else for me to do for everything is lost and there is nothing that is to be done.

i stop to look to see what old davy said was and i see that what old davy said is.

an off-white phone box on off-white dresser feet is leaning over the off-white dirty sand.  the off-white phone box is searching.

at a spot of off-white dirty sand the off-white phone box opens its door and clumsily begins to awkwardly dig.

as old davy had said it would then so indeed it is.  

it was enemy and i was witness and i look beyond it and i kept still in the murk and i kept quiet on the debris beach and i kept hidden among the petrified sludge.

another off-white phone box lay killed in the shallows.  surf the colour of stains nudges it on the way to the debris shore.

it is overcast and it is dark and it is day, maybe noon.  

i reach under my slicker of rough-cut half-cured skin and i reach the pocket stiff with grease and i reach the button chipped and rough and i reach inside the grimy lint and i reach the disc there coloured brown.

old davy said it was once silver and old davy said it once held a gentle womans face and was once ten.

i hold the disc aloft like i was told and i approach the off-white box like i was told and the off-white box digs and there is no sound at all.

until my foot crushes plastic brittle with exposure and my foot and the brittle plastic make a crunch is a crack is a crescendo.  

the off-white phone box turns this way and its off-white door hangs open and the off-white phone box in the surf the colour of stains stands too and makes its way to the debris shore.

i reach under the slicker again and into the greasy pocket and reach another disc from the grimy lint there.  a pitted disc of bevelled edges.

old davy said it had once said fifty and once held a gentle womans face and i hold it too aloft and i move slowly forward across the dirty sand.

both off-white phone boxes are walking to me and their off-white dresser feet drag in surf the colour of stains where it nudges up on the debris shore.

it is as old davy said it was and i say as old davy told - in murk and debris and sludge and alone i call out OPERATOR and walk forward thru the murk and the surf the colour of stains that nudges my feet as it touches the debris shore.