early is the hour
- Dark Lines
Early is that hour on this coast before the easternmost and diamonded southern stars have their perfect glitter impounded by the strength of that slowly rounding furnace of an eternal sun.
Glimpsing up hot from an endless end of sea.
Early is the hour when two couples sit in some type of shared and carnal embrace on the raised concrete surround of the rockpool; all sheltered under a dark sky and comforted by the warm beginnings of another clear day of north-westerlies. Where they grunt like coupling beasts, pleasured, dumb.
Their clothing is scattered about, their chastity ages wasted, their sensibilities lost to cocaine and blunted by dumb alcohol, they sit and fuck in a cluster of luminous flesh.
In the unmindful dark.
Carnal misfits.
Though they are mindful, somehow, of the metronomic rumble of seas breaking strong and far beyond their scattered imagining, just over the pool rail, just a hundred or so yards away. Violence beyond their poor measure.
Just out the back.
Breaking seas that have smoked up the entire cove overnight and that sometimes crack like rifle shot in the pre-dawn dead air.
Waves that cascade their crests in a perfect falling line of luminescent draw. Tracks of waves.
And the three figures that glide past them like spectres, all black suited and holding their ivory sheaths may well be some kind of Harbingers of Righteousness, though they are not. And not a glance do they spare at the waste.
All slipping down by the darkened poolside and away over the rail and into the equally black and furious sea – silently, quickly, expertly. Without murmur or advice they disappear into the mayhem.
Figuring their darktime path through undertow and rip, wearing away at the muscular heat that drives the hundreds of strokes that leads through the acres of whitewater and the final and brutal assault on the break line.
Then the tenuate calm beyond, and its fruity expectations.
petebowes.com 
One of my faves. In fact, this post drew me to K’baa in the first place. With the help of Steve Nug. I thought Clif penned it at the time because… and I cold be wrong… but it was one of those “posted by Clif” articles that mentioned you as the author further down the post.
Me too dumb to notice them things until later.
Me drunk now. Peace and good tidings to thee and thou’s.
We sleep in bliss young rotto, mindless that this night’s pastime is the sister of death –
– and clif is my brother, regardless
I read the comments about that lady longboarder at your former home. I just wanted to let you know that no matter what those bullies may say, you’ve always got a friend in Jesus.
And by Jesus, I would of course mean Dane Reynolds.
And if Dane doesn’t pick up, you can always call me.
I’m just a whiny boy Mr Rottmouth, a whiny high-minded hideous odd writerly chap with a low doorway. A shit -stirrer and an argumentative person with fixed ideas – and small classifications.
Thomas, Rebecca and Clif – got ’em all moving – still waiting on Nettle though, not to mention the oppressively silent Simon –
Love is in the air ~
Nettle’s over here Pete. Still reading, still passing silent judgement, still getting infuriated by the idjits inhabiting the world around me, however I’m not commenting so much lately.
Don’t mistake it for tolerance or any high-minded virtue, though PB. This top’ll blow soon enough and vengeance shall be cast on the hapless victim in a fusillade of qwerty-do verbal blows and a barrage of skin-deep insults. Look out!
On another, completely unrelated, note: just started reading The Ravens by Christopher Robbins and thought of you. Read it?
Haven’t done so Stu, though I saw the hideous (my word for the week) movie that was based on the book and had M Gibson starring – It was called Air America – I always liked Dispatches by Michael Herr as an account of that time