Summer high-fived the Pacific
At Santa Monica Beach.
An engineer - just christened
Part doctor part philosopher -
Gulped cold beer to mark
The vulgar journey’s end
At Santa Monica Beach,
Where Summer pulled up her skirt,
And Beers raced the Sun to bold gold.
The Sun ordained an early defence.
His beard, sacrificed
To the fires of propriety
His shirt, pressed
With the weight of his fears
His accent Greek,
His humanity the World’s.
The elders approved in a quiet hurry
And gave way
To Santa Monica Beach,
Where Philosophers surfed
And regrets were pissed.
We spoke of Art and Culture’s cancer.
We spoke of Science and Truth’s exile.
We spoke of Politics and punished our souls.
We were served cold pale ales,
And Nostalgia’s playlist,
And fried potatoes,
And fried onions,
And fried shrimp.
Here at Santa Monica Beach,
Where hedonism challenged the Pacific,
And diving didn’t mean “into water”.
Love’s temperature was high.
We rolled our cigarettes catching glimpses
Of drunk women and their morality.
“There she goes, smiling at my folly”,
“There she goes, Holy Guacamole!”
Here at Santa Monica Beach,
Where guitars translated Nature’s babel,
And parents gave birth to themselves.
And Venus came,
And the sky went from blue to purple,
And the Moon cast wispy shadows,
And the Sun reluctantly set.
We rode to Venice
On green bicycles
Hungry for food and youth,
Silly but immortal,
We entered La Cabana, where
The tortilla chips were fine and crisp,
The guacamole plentiful and zingy,
The burritos heavy and sloppy,
The margaritas sweet and quenching,
Here at Venice Beach,
Refugee camp for Artists,
Shining edge of the Free World.
We were halved in lifespan,
But doubled in spirits.
Sand rippled,
Stars twinkled,
The Universe breathed,
We could tell
At Santa Monica Beach,
Where you got a second chance.
Where you got a second chance.