Dead on the table
(or it hurts when you’re rumbled in workshop)
(this poem goes with a blog post here)
Standing staring,
faces down around the thing
distorted washed-up
jellyfish insides of a head
mostly dead
but still able to sting.
Prodding
with their sticks
flipping withering edges
but saying little
‘is it us?’ they ask
‘no, but it could be.’
Contempt and loathing
floats in the room
trailing its tentacles.
A prowler enumerates
sharking over ‘what I like’
to frenzied feed.
The next breaker
deposits loaded foam
This organism needs structure,
imagery and invention and
raises issues, ‘is a creature a fish
just because we say it is?’
Eyes stung with brine
ears ringing
at the sound of the sullen sea-cage
clanging
into position.
Muting response.
Well
my jelly ideas –
you won’t get me my
degree. I can see you -
crouching listening
So
here’s the deal you see:
You have to start
to work and craft
something that will thrill
Or
I’ll tie you up in stout
twine. Tote you to the shore
line. Swing you round my
head a time and throw
you in the sea.
Back with all the other bottom feeders
Where you can’t come taunting me.
