Crusoe takes a trip

Shells.

I'm grinding the exoskeletons

of these sadly destined beings 

from depths uncounted for

into obscurity,

and I think to myself

since there's no one here to question 

that this

must surely qualify as a Friday afternoon.

I feel like evaporating

cause this Island is not for me.

I've travelled its sandy beaches 

till utter boredom

walking in my own footsteps

imagining there is someone ahead of me,

and these coconuts,

these hellish nuts.

I would sacrifice my tongue

if I got to taste water just once

without that wretched aroma,

or if there was even an ounce of meat

which didn't fly away from me.

The sky is such a damned perfect blue

it makes my stomach turn.

So transparent is the sea 

that I cannot find comfort in drowning.

There are no shredding cliffs

where I can throw myself into the roaring breaking 

of the waves.

It's all so beautiful

that everything I do seems a crime.

I cannot move,

I cannot touch

anything

without disturbing its diabolic tranquillity,

and Friday

is just another day,

or maybe not.