The Bad Poets’ Society strike again

Perth certainly is an inspiring place. All I wanted to do this morning is go to the beach and write bad prose. You know, the ‘woe is me being all alone on this stinkin’ beach’ kind. But when I arrived there, so did a huge black cloud, and not of the proverbial kind, prompting me to write bad poetry instead. I really must get the band together while this streak lasts! Without further ado, here is my ‘woe is me being all alone getting rained on on this stinkin’ beach’ poetry…

Place in the Sand

The ocean rushes at me angrily

It’s been waiting

But I was late for our appointment

Contemptuously, it has me sprayed from above

But I am stubborn too:

I curl myself into a clam

With my back to the rain

And insist;

This is it, my place in the sand

The clouds practise benevolence in parting

The water gushes away from the shore

And I get to be a piece

Of this sandy puzzle

Let’s just say that freezing in the breeze after getting drenched for no reason at all didn’t exactly improve the mood from earlier:

On the Beach

Ankle-deep on the beach

Knee-deep in quicksand

Up to my neck in the Swanbourne Mire

In over my head

Oh, Pathos, my long lost brother! Can I scrape up any more wounded warrior stuff? You bet! How’s this for you jilted lovers?


Rumour has it, I gave you my heart

What then is this bloody rag

You’re stuffing back into my chest

Carelessly jangling its tattered edges

With your long fingers

As if braiding a bracelet

I came here for you

But all I find is emptiness

At the business end of an invitation

To parasitic friendship

Raise a glass to disillusionment!

Here, let me help you tie that noose now, shall I? At this stage I’m willing to blame an acute lack of sleep for my misgivings. Oddly enough, being here feels quite natural, as if I’d never been anyplace else. 



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