Socks, Sandals, and the Sun We Stole

Pillaging Paradise One Bloated Pint at a Time.

Blistered faces – skin lacerated

And reddened,

Raw from 

The lick of the sun.

For days-

You’ve Rotisseried yourself like

Chicken

Waiting for a flat

Bread-

To fill.

Your sandal clad feet don the tell-

Tale socks of

Your heritage.

The brown sauce

You ladle on to the yolk of

An overcooked egg-

Shovelling fork fulls of

Sausage meat like

a starving streetcat.

That belongs here.

Wash it down with beer-

And bargain bin

vodka

A british emperor on a high-

Your harem swigging vodka like

Mouth

wash

Before passing out on

The hot floors of

A place you 

Have trampled.

a perfectly painted paradise 

mountains over the sea

you limp down the road

hungover and cooked 

faking culture 

while wasting away 

in the sun 

once a year you come

slowly stripping the locals 

of what tradition 

they have left 

there’s beauty here 

fresh food and clear water 

while you pile your plates 

with chips and mayonnaise  

smoking cheap cigarettes

what must they think of us here

slurring our syllables

with our empty stories on repeat 

colonialism consumes cultures 

even now 

even in the sun 

Even here.

In paradise. 

The army

Bikini clad. 

And clutching at empty

plastic

Straws.

Armed

With 

Entitlement they

Invade

The landscape

They never

Owned.

If this resonated, share it on Bluesky (or anywhere folks still have an attention span longer than a moth after a sleepless night), leave us a comment, or check out our latest anthologies

Poetry Collection, ‘Is this all we get?’

Prose Collection, ‘ Fifth Avenue Pizza’