Dactyls are terrible lizards that fly at the mind,
pounding their emphasis boldly, Jurassical pelicans
dipping through breakers, the roaring of others behind,
beating Tithonian wings like the rotors of helicons.
Such a great leathery creature with talons will bind
even the boldest of poets, who long for a particle,
something more gentle to bring in a beautiful line…
Dactyls deny any space for an opening article.
This is a poem from a decade ago, which came to mind recently as we got some goldfish. Gladly, they’re a lot happier and well equipped than the one which prompted this dark-humoured poem. Please don’t read too much into it! Here it is, unedited from my younger self.
There is no greater fear than this:
the fish of the bowl of golden fear.
I lie and watch distorted man
as I contemplate my life in here.
Then all asplash my green world’s gone;
I’m found in a bleak white arena.
Then another hubbub and I’m sent right back
to familiar home somehow cleaner…
In a round of odd sound and fear of here
there’s little to do but cry;
four lifetimes per minute yet still I am bored,
and without thumbs a noose I can’t tie.