Mornings are Weird – Maté Jarai

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


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


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.