Poems, October 2025

I was cleaning my room
When I got to the windows
I pulled up the blinds
And I found a fly
Resting motionless
on the window sill

It probably wore itself out
Trying to fly through the window
Instead it found itself trapped
Between the cold glass pane
And the slatted wooden blinds

It tried to follow the light to freedom
When it should have searched behind the darkness

I have to finish every book I read
So when I get bored I simply stop reading entirely
A lot of the time I find I am only reading
To get to the next book

If you give me an hour to write something
I'll give you a burnt steak
Unseasoned and too hot
That burns your mouth
And is served for breakfast
After you've already eaten

The best steak begins before you get to the market
As an image to satiate a yet unrealised hunger
It is carefully selected
Marinated and rested
Cooked on a searing hot pan
Allowed to baste
Allowed to sit
Fed to an empty belly
In a well-lit room
On a white plate
With a sharp knife

When I give myself an hour to write something
I've probably already done an hour of work
Before I picked up the pen
When I was on the tram and looked out the window
When I stuttered over a coffee conversation
When I was bored of my TV show

When I give myself an hour to write something
I might have done all my writing already
And just sit there reading
Or not
Letting my work rest
Trying to work out if I'm hungry yet