Down and out on island time.


Full Moon. Dead men’s chests, littered with psychedelic scraps of some kind of madness.

Rolling seas and cigarettes, sat in the shade of a thousand palms, all waving in the wrong direction.


Ships offshore in solitary sedation, waiting for the next nuclear test. Hydrogen spouts, mushrooming over unsuspecting villagers who cue with meagre possessions for the voyage to internment camps. Don’t ask questions, just let the men in the monochrome uniforms get on with the job. Yesterday was like any other - today it’s too dangerous to stay.


Reefs crumbling under the weight of vast plastic islands, bobbing quietly on surging currents. No fixed abode. Discarded by soulless heathens in factory towns.


Neon lights emanate from smoke filled pontoons while pirates cuss and drink and fight and fuck and rave and love and swirl in manic circles across a bamboo dance floor to a bed of ropes, coiled in the darkest corner of hells new home.


We reject the destruction. The unchecked weakening of our mothers resolve.


We’re aware.


We dance on the waterline with wet feet and weed and smiles as wide as the burning horizon. Tropical bandits, the creeping, swirling, sage-like cotton traders of the south pacific. Barefoot on deck, sailing headlong into the typhoon, screaming a warning to Poseidon. “Here we come motherfucker! Just you try and stop us”. Sea gypsies. Island hopping, pill dropping, rum swigging, merchants of maritime mayhem. A community converging on far-flung reefs - anchored to the idea of community and carefree living.


 A million free spirits in shimmering tiki shirts, riding the wave.