Mornings are Weird – Maté Jarai
March 20, 2019
Identifying with Whale Sharks
It’s only 11:19
It’s raining again
I’m gone
In danger of becoming endangered
“Ladies and Gentlemen…”
I’m going by way
of the whale shark
cut up in a dark store room
of a supply ship off the
coast of Hong Kong
“Go down slow…”
Scattered parts of me
drift in the depths
each of them alone
terrified but determined
to come together again
form a force ready to fight back
whale shark wars
they find a way to go on land
a reverse submarine
they make soup out of us all
dominate us all
“I’ll never wake up
in a good mood again…”
like the parts of me
that remain
waiting patiently
to find each other
and resume
the fight.
Death of the Wolves
It’s early
and it’s raining
slept in my clothes
colder than I was
face clogged with gunk
listening to creaking
old walls and brittle
windows snickering
while I shiver and
try not to cry
wolves are distant
flesh on my mind
fog in the empty
space above my bed
a smokescreen
in between my eyes
poisoned hands
old fingers
scatter brained
dead below
communicating
without words
or symbols
only feelings
sentient and rash
in harmony
like the songs
I dreamed of
ruling with
only to fuck myself
with my own rusty
addictions
cobwebbed but silver
messed and too literal
to pass into
distant thought
or to be classed
as wonder
laughable fakeness
dust from my dreams
hovering in this
sombre darkness
electric light
tugging out the final
blissful thoughts
and we don’t howl.
Pigeon Wing
There was a pigeon
wing on the
ground while I
walked through
the fog. The bone
was visible, a little
blood on it. I didn’t
even feel
sick. It was
normal. I was
listening to
Hendrix. The song
was an instrumental
version of
‘Angel’. The pigeon
was an angel. Now
he’s dead
or hopping around
with one wing
hiding from the cat
that fucked
him up. Maybe
he and I
can hide together
like cowards
who know
the truth of it
just munching
on chocolate
because the
temporary joy
of chocolate
is as good
as it gets.