Poemín

This poem
Will be
Exquisitely short

And

Dinkily dedicated
To you.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Single Male Blue Whale wltm Single Male or Female Blue Whale

Seeking the right blue for a travelling pair

Length:

21 metres.

Location:

Pacific, Sri Lanka.

Physical Attributes:

Nice jaw-line, excellent lung capacity, some orca scarring (with related orca fear).

Hobbies:

Krill-trawling, harpoon avoidance, learning to sing.

Message:

My last partnership ended after some seriously risky orca behaviour but I’m ready to start again. I’ve enjoyed being on my own for two winters, getting to know myself better, learning my favourite fjords, head slap angles, mating spots. But (always sentimental), I’d love to share sunsets, night-diving and water-blowing with the true blue one.

Call. Call to me.

How To Be A Dub

Never leave your umbrella at work. Never.
Don't dream of trying to park near Grafton Street.
The Guinness in O'Donoghues is hard to beat.
Sunset on the Beckett Bridge invents new edible colours. Lick them up.
Buses equal drama. Bring a pencil and notepad.
Most cinemas suck. You also need to book in advance. This seems shit.
The humour's dark, and always there. Laughing at it helps.
The Sunday newspapers arrive on Saturday nights and they read easy, after a few.
People will always diss this city. They're the ones who don't see it.

Lately

Lately,

All I see is the beauty 

Of the universe:

Perfectly formed potholes

The squish of a slug on the walk to work

Petrol stations, neon, one after another

Pay slips, unopened and yet spent

High heels, heels too high to be worn

Extra large condoms lingering on the chemist shelf

The early morning red glow of alarm clock digits.

The beauty sings, 

Somehow. 

Periodic Speculation

Is this catastrophe
Or epiphany
Or merely monthly musing?

Literary Condundrum

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I write so that I feel like I'm with people.
Sometimes, when I'm with people, I write so that I feel like I'm alone.

Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?

The universe sings a snatch of a song
That jerks the lobe of your ear.
You sing it back, feeling fake
A mocking bird, mimicking meekly.

But,

Let those few notes sing, let yourself sing them.
Follow the universes's melody
With your own tuneless timorous tune,
No doubt sung poorly, no doubt sung prosaically,

But,

Nevertheless,
A poem.