Crab hunting with a madman (an ode to mad dog)
Ambling sideways on all fours, in hope of capturing the essence,
believing wholly in awkward impersonations, allowing the lug holed
sand to sludge deep between our exposed toes, we await the tide.
Misjudging Greenwich Meantime, unable to read the moon, we find
time on our side, and pick through razor sharp crustations. You pin
me down, and draw blood, with what you say is a limpet shell? I find
myself afraid of your imagination, and long for the ebb and flow
and the crack of canescent claw, and the taste of raw seafood, we are
after all wild today, signing a alcoholic declaration, witnessed by a
fruit machine attendant and a drunken barman, that we shall live off
the earth for a year and a day, no more no less, that’s what you said.
And I, caught up in the moment, signed my life away, you owned me.
Flat on the sand, eyes at sea level, mouths agape, salt penetrating
tongues, you guessed odds were, a pea crab may wonder in on
account of their stupidity, I doubted you quietly, and started shaking
as the harsh North winds penetrated my skin, I cried, salty emotions lost
to the sea,
“Crab” you suddenly screamed “Crab” “Crab”
the crunching you made stays with me today, and the sight of your
emaciated arse disappearing beneath the waves, casts a smile across
crabs safe again.