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Sunday

15 Oct

The ocean’s big and deep and blue,
The sky is much the same,
And if you turned them upside down,
You’d just get salty rain

Realise

11 Oct

I’m as bad as the lot of them,
Or worse, maybe.

Mine are irrational, nonsensical,  half-magical, all-spectacle,
And they don’t result in me giving to charity.

So I conclude
My superstitions
Are just as bad
As most religions

I find a four-leaf clover, my week will be excellent.
I see a shooting star, I can close my eyes and wish.
I hold my breath all the way through a tunnel
while repeating a name in my head
and that person will stay safe today.
Misplaced pin, falling leaf,
SAVETHEWHALES charity band
infused with Melville-esque significance,
Silver star on a chain, like a crucifix.

A woman of science who counts the number of crows perched on street signs.

One for sorrow,
Two for joy…

And what gets me, what really irks me, what annoys me like nothing else, is the simple fact that it always works.

Which rationally, cannot be the case. I know this, I know it, I swear.

But my eyes are always open to the little rays of sun that clear away clouds when I put a Beatles record on.

 

 

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12 Sep

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Antisummary

31 Aug

We met at university,
We sat and watched the ABC,
You know so much about the world,
I’m glad this friendship came to be

A Rhyme

21 Aug

Sparrow on my windowsill,
Oh won’t you shut your beak?
Your singing makes me love you so,
I feel like such a freak.

You flitter through the morning air
Your beady black-eyes glazed,
A clueless bird-brained little twit,
Forever fly unfazed.

White whale on that distant line
Between the sea and skies,
Pleasant looking from afar
But what does that disguise?

Are you rich in whale wit?
Or is your skull packed full
With flowers, feelings, hats, and bells,
With clouds and cotton wool?

To chase a fox or drown a bird,
Or watch butterflies play,
I’d hurl a harpoon at you, Whale,

But let’s face it, you’d probably just end up in somebody’s sushi.

 

 

 

This diver is thinking about his dinner.

Skinny Jeans

18 Aug

An Appreciation or You’ll Never Understand

What is there in this world
That rivals the majesty
The might
The scarily tight
Form-fitting functional plain black
Skinny jean?

The versatility!
The changeability!
The uphill struggle
To fit feet, calves, thighs,
Then inhale and zip.

But breathe with caution…
The ricochet of a button fly has velocity enough to embed shrapnel in human bone…

“A man should be able to support his lover’s weight,

And that guy looks like he’d topple over if his backpack was a little heavy…”

No. You will never understand,
The mark of a man is no longer his wits,
Or words,
Or haircut,
Or ability to rock a T-spin in a time-trial-Tetris-tourney.

If his legs are wider than his wrists
And his jeans don’t cling with ferocity
To his too-easy-to-break ankles
He is nothing.

Our fair Evolution didn’t see this coming.
An era when the spindly and delicate
Would triumph in genetic competition…

But Evolution can just shut up and take a back-seat to our new Dictator of Nature.

The plain black skinny jeans.

The Butterfly Effect

16 Aug

…or This Is A Really Clever Name For A Poem If You Understand The Joke

Oh Butterfly,
You’ll never know
The lives you’ve touched and how
You’ve changed the flow of friendships
And the skies we fly through now

You never knew
The way we watched
You floating from afar,
It’s thanks to you so many of us
Landed where we are

So don’t be scared,
I recognise
The weirdness shining through,
You may not know that we exist
But Butterfly, thank you!

 

 

Living life like you’ve got an 8pm time slot

14 Jul

I’ll alphabetise my CDs
Maybe empty my draws and sift through all the junk that lives in them
There’s a lot of paper on my desk that needs a home
My pinboard could probably use a cull as well

Just old movie tickets and last semester’s timetable
Should print out this semester’s timetable
Colour code it
Buy books for each subject? Instead of one big book for all of them?

Maybe.

Listen to Of Montreal
Send texts to people, whinge a bit
Find out the riff I thought I wrote is from a Dave Matthews Band song
Damn
It sounded really pretty

Whinge some more
Delete some texts
Save some others
Look through colours

Vacuum under my bed
Things live there
Dry my hair
Paint my nails
Worry about my skin
Worry about the next six months
Worry about how much money I have
Worry about global warming
Worry about road accidents

Get out some paint and paint some things
Not sure which things
Notice how many blank diaries I’m collecting
Fill them

 

This is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard:

 

Goodnight.

 

An exam week poem

12 Jun

I’m only as good as the numbers I get,
And where my name reads in the rank,
And when it’s all through and I feel rather blue,
I’ve a lack of distinctions to thank.

I want to be special! Why can’t they see
The fire and drive in my soul?
I learn all their facts and spew them all back,
But the numbers have taken their toll.

What if they tested our imaginations?
Our dreams and our wishes and words?
Our visions and pure creativity?
The manifestation of free thought, free ourselves from the shackles of their rigid schemes of theories and textbooks

And then dance, leap through the burning sky into pools of warm honey-coloured light,

Come to rest on clouds that seep through our pores,
Enrich us, fill us up with whatever it is that links us all,
That shimmering shared consciousness that shines through
In literature and colour and protest and moist earth and the wind,

The tiny, spun-glass fragments of collective experience melted to sugary syrup
And formed into one, giant marshmallow of a dream,
A castle of sweet pockets of air and creamy walls that embrace all of us,
No matter our size
or shape
or religion
or birthplace,
Why can’t we just FEEL, and be graded on a scale of emotion and passion and feelings?

Then I remember I don’t do an arts degree.

111

5 Jan

One thing,

With jaws strung with cords of slaver

and eyes sunken, blinking at the light, unfamiliar,

and drinking in the hollow victory,

Pasty, pointed, barking

Cocooned in sugar

Disguising horns and spines that find targets indiscriminately…

 

One thing, and another

that perches, ears pricked and nose prickling

on the beasty’s lap,

(hold your art history books to a mirror, ladies and gentlemen)

Oh its eyes glow with happiness

as its hair is brushed and threaded with ribbons.

Little puppy won’t cry tonight.

Not tonight.

 

One thing, and another, and another

that rears its cliché of an ugly head

and mixes itself a cocktail,

one part lime cordial to two parts self-doubt (or lemonade)

and sits and watches, not expecting

Anything At All

Probably isn’t even watching, too busy juggling or singing,

But whose fault might that be…

And is it a fault, or a design?

Something that was built with purpose and certainty,

Like a bridge, or a rocketbike.

Reversibility is a secondary trait.

 

One thing, and another, and another.

My iPod can destroy them all,

So I’ll stop worrying so much.