Surf Poems.....I'm such a chic.

There I sat broken hearted
Wanted to shiit
But only farted....

 

there once was a surfer from Nantucket...

 

Drove up to his favorite spot, took a look at it and said f.u.k it.....

 

I think that you'd really like the poetry of J. Robinson Jeffers. He lived near the turn of the 20th century and built by hand his own stone house on a hillside overlooking the Pacific in Carmel, CA. Here's one of my favorites:

NOVEMBER SURF
Some lucky day each November great waves awake
and are drawn
Like smoking mountains bright from the west
And come and cover the cliff with white violent cleanness:
then suddenly
The old granite forgets half a year’s filth:
The orange-peel, egg-shells, papers, pieces of clothing,
the clots
Of dung in corners of the rock, and used
Sheaths that make light love safe in the evenings: all
the droppings of the summer
Idlers washed off in a winter ecstasy:
I think this cumbered continent envies its cliff then….
But all seasons
The earth, in her childlike prophetic sleep,
Keeps dreaming of the bath of a storm that prepares up
the long coast
Of the future to scour more than her sea-lines:
The cities gone down, the people fewer and the hawks
more numerous,
The rivers mouth to source pure; when the two-footed
Mammal, being someways one of the nobler animals, regains
The dignity of room, the value of rareness.

 

It's no feat
to beat
the heat.
So, jeat
you seat.
Be fleet!
Be fleet!
Cool and discrete,
honey.

 

The flat spell is causing a creative explosion! I learned to play the drums last week.....
It's like George Costanza when he stopped having sex. He became a genius.

 

O Jellyfish kicker.
Sitting in the murky waters.
O Jellfish kicker.
Everyone knows it's you !

 

haha... There are perhaps 2 outcomes of terrible flat spells that are evident through the Swellinfo forums. 1) An array of negative forum threads, and 2) an outlet of creative... Flat spells definitely seem to cause change in behavior.

 

" wanted to **** but only farted"
hahahahhaahhaahahaahahah

 

How about a haiku?

O' Ocean City
Dirty boil on my ass
God, How I love you

 

I like this one...........

 

sittin on the beach
starin at the sand
lookin for a babe
with a beer in my hand
watchin the local surfers
rip up the waves
when im really only lookin for a couple of babes

 

Ode to the Sea Pablo Neruda

Here on the island
the sea
and so much sea
overflowing,
relentless,
it says yes, then no,
then no, no, no,
then yes, in blue,
in foam, with gallops,
it says no, again no.
It cannot stay still,
my name is sea, it repeats
while slamming against rocks
but unable to convince rocks,
then
with seven green tongues
of seven green dogs,
of seven green tigers,
of seven green seas,
it smothers rocks, kisses rocks,
drenches rocks
and slamming its chest,
repeats its name.
O sea, you declare yourself,
O comrade ocean,
don’t waste time and water,
don’t beat yourself up,
help us,
we are lowly
fishermen,
men of the shore,
we’re cold and hungry
and you’re the enemy,
don’t slam so hard,
don’t scream like that,
open your green trunk
and give all of us
on our hands
your silver gifts:
fish every day.

Here in each house,
we all crave it
whether it’s of silver,
crystal or moonlight,
spawn for the poor
kitchens on earth.
Don’t hoard it,
you miser,
coldly rushing like
wet lightning
beneath your waves.
Come, now,
open yourself
and leave it
near our hands,
help us, ocean,
deep green father,
end one day
our earthly poverty.
Let us
harvest your lives’
endless plantation,
your wheat and eggs,
your oxes, your metals,
the wet splendor
and submerged fruits.

Father sea, we know already
what you are called, all
the seagulls circulate
your name on the beaches:
now, behave yourself,
don’t shake you mane,
don’t threaten anyone,
don’t smash against the sky
your beautiful teeth,
ignore for a moment
your glorious history,
give to every man,
to every
woman and to every child,
a fish large or small
every day.
Go out to every street
in the world
and distribute fish
and then
scream,
scream
so all the working poor
could hear you,
so they could say,
sticking their heads
into the mine:
“Here comes the old man sea
to distribute fish.”
And they’ll go back down
into the darkness,
smiling, and on the streets
and in the forests,
men and the earth
will smile
an oceanic smile.
But
if you don’t want it,
if you don’t care for it,
then wait,
wait for us,
we must worry, first
we must try to solve
and straighten out
human affairs,
the biggest problems first,
then all the others,
and then
we’ll enter you,
we’ll chop the waves
with a knife made of fire,
on an electric horse
leaping over foam,
singing
we’ll sink
until we touch the bottom
of your guts,
an atomic thread
will guard your shank,
we’ll plant
in your deep garden
trees
of cement and steel,
we’ll tie
your hands and feet,
on your skin man will walk,
spitting,
yanking in bunches,
building armatures,
mounting and taming you
to dominate your spirit.
All this will occur
when us men
have straighten out
our problem,
the big,
the big problem.
We’ll slowly
solve everything:
we’ll force you, sea,
we’ll force you, earth
perform miracles,
because in our very selves,
in the struggle,
is fish, is bread,
is the miracle.

Neruda was the man. The sea has been saying an awful lot of 'no' these days. Ready for a three day head high 'yes'.