Dead on the Table

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.