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Damian: posts feature the pen and the pixel

@ukdamo / ukdamo.tumblr.com

Gay guy in England's north west. Retired Forensic Learning Disability nurse. Travel: Photography: Music: Literature
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Ardnamurchan Point

One of mine from an age ago. Inspired by sunset beneath the lighthouse, gazing west.

The silver, black, green-bellied serpent coiled itself tightly round the jagged edge.

Deep-throated rumbles arose from the depths, not thunderously nor in a rage, because it slept, but as the breath of a drowsy giant.

Over its back played pastel shades of sunset and a star of human artifice twinkled on the horizon.

We kept quietly away with hushed breath not daring to disturb Leviathon.

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Late Afternoon Stroll on the Cliffs

Laure-Anne Bosselaar

As usual, Death sweetly slips her arm in mine— & we take a deep breath from the eucalyptus breeze. We both worked honestly at our jobs: all day Death destroyed traffic with wailing ambulances while I killed hours & lines on eight-&-a-half by eleven inch pages. We’re fast friends by now, Death much older of course, but there’s no hierarchy between us: we’re both taking a break from it all, glad to watch waves collapse on rocks & pelicans dive-bomb fish. I try to be sensitive to Death’s guilt: that whole pandemic disaster she can no longer control. She’ll soon betray me too—like she will you. I know. But today the gulls are silver angels etching great cursive blessings in a perfect sky—so Death & I make believe we believe that, & amble on.

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Aigues-Mortes

Jacques Frederic Temple

enceinte militaire au cœur de  salicornes, étrangère, par acte régulier, aux hommes des palus, nés d’Oc fleuris de sel, qui parlaient aux dauphins, elle a surgi, hostile aux roselières qui font l’amour avec le vent, elle a surgi pour la vaine croisade dans les cris d’alarme des oiseaux,

emblème à jamais funéraire des terres aliénées.

military fortress deep within samphire marshes, foreign, by particular edict, to the fabled men of the West, flowered with salt, who spoke to the dolphins, she arose, hostile to the reed beds that make love with the wind, she arose for the vain crusade in the alarm cries of the birds,

eternal funerary marker of alienated lands.

(my attempt at translation)

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Cinque Terre

Jon Pineda

Between the train's long slide and the sun ricocheting off the sea, anyone would have fallen silent in those words, the language of age in her face, the birds cawing over the broken earth, gathering near its stones and chapel doors. In the marina, the sea and its bones have grown smaller. Though the tide is out, it is not the tide nor the feathers nor the cat that jumps into the street, the dust lifting with each wing and disappearing. The rust- colored sheets that wrap the sails of ships, I don't know their name nor the way to say lips of water in Italian and mean this:  an old woman stood by the tracks until his hand stopped waving.

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