I spend the night at the beach. And this is what happened. In the form of spoken word poetry.
Part 1
The last forty-eight hours were about the skies. Our time was spent outside, me and four friends. My no bullshitting, soul seeking, city runaway spirits, my friends. We’d be bipolar in conversation. So, there we were. Our Faces up with our backs down, we made like the silence between the leaves to find ourselves then morphing into a verbal exchange, talking like our lives were on the line and these were our last moments and the way we owned it wasn’t spent giving a fuck about what our last words were going to be. Banter speak about both sides of the fence, the drugs we’ve allowed to touch our lips, the five hundred variations of “the sky is fucking amazing”, enunciating every which distinction of form of beautiful, ridiculous, incredible alike to do a drop of justice to the image of the sky that is now burned into our shared memory.
The sunless sky was the brightest I had ever seen, with the star suns, the sun acting the moon, the moon satellites and the planets spilt like cocaine dreams on Lucy’s glass table. Clouds opened up like her dancer legs, to start the show that only made our jaws drops, our hearts beat slow and our eyes rest on this backdrop engineered for our viewing pleasure.
The world was at our ten feet, ours to keep, and envision this: See what I and we see, we’ll let you borrow our eyes for the next minute of your time. What you as we can see is that brilliant fucking sky with all the diamonds cut and set for Lucy. Hear that rolling water licking our ankles on the shore beneath our feet and all the sand, shells and pearls. Playing games with us like she was kissing and teasing our lonely cheeks.
The only flaw as far as you-as-I-and-we can see is that the sky was cut in two, finished at the point of the horizon. It was sitting on a solid wall of deeper than black ocean. Laying there strong like it was holding the weight of the sky on its back. She was beautiful and if she were a dancer, she would whisper that her name is Dulce into your craving ear. Dancing on the boundaries of your imagination as she mimics Lucy’s cocaine dream just below her. Her midnight black collides with Lucy’s benevolent sky as they dance to the ticking hours till morning.
Part 2
So, there we were, with our ankles in the sand, our minds carried away by the leniency of our imagination. Faces up at Lucy’s glass table with our bodies lax for in that moment each of us grew a set of translucent arms and we were holding hands, our fingers sewn together, intertwined like the roots in a forest and the grip was fueled by the weight of creation.
Two rafts sat afloat not too far from the shore, playing copycat to two battleships facing each other like a game involving singing pirates, dancing crocodiles, peaceful ninjas, harp playing sirens, Zeus throwing lightning, feathers from snakes, golden beads from child like dreams, and kisses by Lucy herself. We descend into Dulces' deep liquid blue, her cold embrace, while goose bumps revive our skin and tattoo our bodies with ideas reminding us that we are alive. Our skin made like newborn chicks, for that’s what we were in that moment. Ten arms and ten legs, fifty toes and fifty fingers slid underwater to the battleship black raft in the distance. With each stroke and pull of hand and foot, the water illuminated green embers, green sea fireflies buzzing through our fingers like the hopes that this night will go on.