Fish

It seems on my side
Of the clicker
There’s a distortion
In the truth
Minor adjustments
For absent
Minded screensavers
Folders, of youth
It’s there to find
Scanned, ready
For the printing press
To run on
Sunday’s holy suckling
I wanted a bite
An ordinary slice
Of evenly distributed
Baked, moist, pie.
Her heart’s not in it
Though, I’m plugging
Away with mild milk
Still laced
With last night’s joke
It doesn’t echo
Falls dead
Flattened by an attempt
To concoct a phrase
That’ll unlock
That level up
To reach ninety-nine percent
It works, under pressure
Almost every single time
With a trawlers net to keep
The fish from the brine

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Fish

Habit

Should we meet face to face
Not screen to screen or
Keyboard to keyboard
Uncertainty in the eye of the sender
Picking out an imperfect mark
At thirty-five pixelated paces
Looking for an excuse
To avoid changing my routine
Swiping left for melancholy
But feeling justified in rejection.
Even if she is worth it
One day her face will sag
Wrinkles weather my vanity
With an exasperated demeanour
I’m tiresome, an old git
Never staring into a mirror
For fear of what it might reflect
I can only imagine the face
I used to wear at twenty-five
Wasn’t much of a groomer
Bad habits never scrubbed off
The grime from my pores
Easier to be cynical than dress
Appropriately for the occasion
She holds her drink like she was
Taught to be courteous
This love, a poisoned wine
I think I muttered it forcefully
Enough for her to leave
I’m rational and sober
Drinking tap water
Overgrown strands of hair
Hide the crocodile tears
The bottled up emotion
Slipping through the small
Gaps in between my teeth.
A small submissive ape
Philosophising about being
Misunderstood, when all
I wanted was what I had anyway

 

 

 

Habit

Carbon Dating

Hi, it’s nice to meet you
I am new here
And full of secrets
I’d rather keep
To myself.
I can weigh
Your heavy words
On small shoulders
I’m stronger than I look
But I won’t pretend
To be a perfect fit
I’m afraid of finding
The happy ending
That completes the book
Finishes the song
MakingĀ it seem
That everything
Will be alright
As we count
The number of rings
On our fingers

Carbon Dating