Code Epsilon

The radio warbles sub-audible sorrows, a lilting tale of regret
and parted lovers’ memories long held and treasured
as the wind sweeps down the desolate beach stirring
and gathering the strand at the water’s edges
pulling strings unseen.

Other times the tune rises in wrathful wondrous thunder,
confusion lock stepped to a sonic mass, a four chord back beat
blasting half formed thoughts and battered stanzas
swollen with rage rhyme and reason
clashing on the hollow shore.

Those orphaned words wander spirit haunted swampland,
stridently declaiming and defaming in the same breath,
or otherwise pleading with crude poetic yearning
desperately yearning for reprieve
for forgiveness and for peace.

Every day the same sounds recycle familiar emotions
a treadmill of industrial expression, turning the wheel
and churning the deeper stream, muddying the waters
those plaintive cries from what’s concealed inside
or the mindless chatter mounting,
that time wasting absurdist talk
and time wrought heartfelt hopes
blended together
into a tidal surge
of indistinct mass
a dark ocean riven
with undertow and hidden rips.

Uncaring forces drag the unfortunate and the weary
out to the deathly depths of the sea and inundate us
with an implacable brackish flood, a biblical rush
of tired lyric and broken verse, trembling with truth
or devoid of any and all logic or reflection
hapless curses spat like bile into the black rising wash
inciting only violence of thought and vitrification of the heart.

And yet despite those spiteful ravings and callous rants
music persists amidst the folded dunes and salt-bush tufts
curling about the ears of the curious and whispering
comforts to the hearts of the forlorn and the forsaken
like a distant light hidden in the sandy hills
promising shelter from the imminent storm
as heavy clouds gather across the bay, lifting
silver crests and green foam spray flashing
in stray bursts of sunlight, another day retreating already
receding, dulled sensations and numbed hands
care worn faces aged further by wind borne sands
as we scour the shore
seeking no-one-knows-what
dreamlike and shakily animated
only by those mournful, restive songs
as the radio weeps
and carries us ever on.

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