A form of therapy

Standing, perhaps leaning, on the lighthouse. Looking to the sea and the cloudfront, those wave-forms, heading in land, wrecking ships and moving on. Brings with it a lady, crabby and unsympathetic and who else? Ahh! A Mutt (R. Mutt? Nonsense). Yes. Running along, gambolling, but, we forget, you're a pussy, aren'cha! Are you screaming? Are you really screaming? Yes. You are, you're screaming and my doesn't it sound genuine – this is no horror-film-darkened-room-chiller-mumbo-jumbo – this is the good stuff! The real deal, ma frien'! And the little feller's runnin' at'cha and you know (she says you know and dammit does she know!) he ain't gonna hur'cha, you silly boy. But he's snappin' at your shins and it sure looks like he's gunna hur't'cha! Evasive action? You bet'chur'ass! Whatever's to hand will do, cricket bat, rock, stick? Hit that little fucker, smash him for all you've got. That cunt gunna be a fuckin' paste when I'mm'a finished with'im.

He was only playing, surely, only fucking playing.

We're only playing ma'am, we're only playin'. It's pretend adrenaline, pretend blood!
And that little ditch in the ground? We'll that's yur pretend fuckin' dog. He's playin' dead.

The Crab (or Under The Rug)

Did I see you smile,
under the rug?
Some gentle ripple
a simple stitch in love.
But it's hard, that half-day,
when the most-of-you has gone away.
And you gift me with a shell
and promise you'll be back - some day.
But you can't promise-precise
and we're on that stilted precipice,
just waiting for the wind
and talking slow and low, but!
Look and see, it's also a beach, waiting for the sea
and you, prodigal hermit, return to your shell. Well.