This shore has rhythm. A fractal beat
On surf and sand. A wave. A wave.
The ding ding, the hum,
This hiss and smoke from Manhattan’s mouth is loud
But young. It will pass. Shore
is forever. A wave. A wave.
A wave in wet paint on metal,
Wet orange reflections, captured light set forever.
Wet paint is like brick in this city.
The sky is made of air,
The doors are made of wood,
And the heads are made of paint.
East river water is made of paint.
It’s wet and every night the light
from its twin in concrete waves,
Waves, shows it colour and contour and form
And lets it play; a thick sodium slug
That sticks to the sides, shimmering.
This land has deep vibrations,
Anger and strong footsteps, rumblings
And penetrations and this
Shore-to-shore shake that keeps it
Up. Wet, dry, hot, cold, down,
It’s a furious nightlight;
Ding, awash in a river
Going east to an island and floating
Easily on the wind like a gull;
Ding, going east to the ocean and
A gulp, a wash, a river of spit
And an ocean of shouting flotsam.
Paint this city black. Paint this city black.
Shout amongst this hum, this hiss
And Manhattan’s smoke and mouth your words
So every silent phoneme is a subway tunnel!
Ding, a wash, a gulp, an ocean, a river.
Ding, strong penetrations, footsteps, vibrations.
Ding, Thick colour, concrete, night and paint,
Ding, the heads, the doors, the sky is wet.
The city sleeps beneath a pillowed sky
And suffocated hum and hiss and smoke
Can not disturb a wave. A wave.
This city sleeps surrounded by the shore.
