poem
WRITTEN:
1983, 16 years
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Whenever I read over this I think I must have been on something when I wrote it. However (pay attention, now) at that age I didn't know anyone I could've asked, never mind anyone who would have supplied without being asked. I simply didn't have those sorts of friends. (With apologies to Douglas Adams, who probably doesn't have any now, either.)
From what I can vaguely recall without having to go scrabbling around under the bed for a diary that some mice have probably chewed all the important bits out of anyway, I was trying to metaphorically express my disgust at the way (er, shall we say) certain people totally disregarded me and my opinions. I don't remember exactly who, but I have a fair idea.
Visions of no substance flip on the ground,
like fish.
Flip flap fish, gasping, rasping,
dying fish.
Dapper flapping on dappled ground.
Visions of judgement
flap
on the ground like fish.
Immortal fish,
in the last micro-moment of all life
Almost dead.
Dead.
Flip flapping, dappled ground, gasping rasping,
dying fish.