Cy Forrest


now the she-bots are fucking the lifeguards on the beaches

to the she-bots that start to feel the heat 
to August, to arriving on the beaches
to the sea wall, to the car park inundated with poppies
to the tin foil barbecues, to standing on the burning sand
to the bearded men blowing on hot coals
to rising sea levels, to diminishing islands
now the she-bots are fucking the lifeguards on the beaches.
Of wading through seaweed, of a ship’s ballast 
of the cans of Stella, to crazy-daisy plates, to Regatta clothing
to the women hauling beer, spitting on their hands
stand up, tell them to brew their own
to the Private signs, to the piss and the shit
and soon you’re going to feel wracked by the high tide
now the she-bots are fucking the lifeguards on the beaches
 


now the she-bots are fucking the buskers outside the hypermarkets

to the she-bots that set foot on the flood plains
to the malls, to the promise of the earth
to arrive at the newbuilds, to swim upstream against the flow
to two rivers, to the confluence, to the flint dry banks
and soon you will dig a hole in the sand knowing this is not your home
now the she-bots are fucking the buskers outside the hypermarkets.
Not from these parts and out of its natural habitat
you drop in some wild angelica
angelica is the best choice, no watering required
no going back, no confidence needed to flourish
to the gold mine, to the lick and spitters
to the homeless shitters, seize the day
you arrange your lips for what you’re about to receive
now the she-bots are fucking the buskers outside the hypermarkets



now the she-bots are fucking the shelf-stackers in the World Food sections

to the she-bots that feel a mini-famine
to arriving in the World Food sections, to the hot summer of sex
to the jackfruit, to the jerk chicken 
to the sheltered paths, to the secret coves, to the thin static
to the rusting transmitters, to the messages
to the pale-brown creeks, to the salt-washed, sun-bleached a-holes
now the she-bots are fucking the shelf-stackers in the World Food sections.
Of tipping sand from the conch-shells shuttled by the oceans 
of messages received, of dead almond leaves for sails
to the infinity pools, to the drowned out ecstasy
of making yourself heard above the rising tide
to the hypermarket announcements, to the afternoon delight
to holding onto sea-lashed limpets on the islands of dreams
now the she-bots are fucking the shelf-stackers in the World Food sections

Cy Forrest is from Manchester, in the UK, but now living in Wiltshire. He graduated from the Creative and Life Writing MA at Goldsmiths, University of London in 2002. Poems in Poetry Ireland Review, Abridged, Honest Ulsterman, Stand, Icefloe Press, Wombwell Rainbow, Spelt and others. Poems due to appear in Eratio and Obsessed With Pipework.

 
 

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