In the middle, I stand, pushing down my insides,

is to be whooshed over and


whooshed by the waves, emanating up from the soles of one’s feet;

tidal waves, quick and sudden; humongous waves that cross over one’s bowels,  stomach

and heart, crushing them together into a

bouncing ball,

up and

churning it                                     out

out of my throat and out , straight into the face of the mortal who stands there,

on the sand,

holding onto the the edge of the sea and

rippling it,

rippling it and still trying – desperately trying –

to shake

out any rough bits –

any bits that dance, or that ripple, with a little bit of their own.

Why ? thinks the mortal. Why bother with the mess, the blood and the gory bits –

the hanging, the drawing and the disembowelling,?


When all that is needed is a word, a phone call, an email – a nod of the head,


quite simply

and quite cleanly

a lie?


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019


Image by OpenIcons from Pixabay

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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