As a nocturnal breed,
Mr Honk never fully adapted
to his condition, but even he knew
that the parchment nomads,
like hidden pilcrows,
favour serene moonbaths
under the waned crescent
once all the trinkets of the day
finally run their course
and even the turntable
can’t outshout the chorus
of aspiring seagulls.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There is no purpose to life—we are born to die, and that’s it.
Everything in between is a flaccid time-filler. And yet we flex
our muscles and strike dignified poses, as if we were better
than seagulls fighting over a box of chips with chippy sauce
dumped on the pavement by bar-goers on their way home
after a Friday night out, when in fact, even our cries are as loud
and desperate—except theirs say that there is no purpose to life
but life itself.
Time measured by worn shirt collars and holes in socks,
or by glyphs drawn haphazardly by seagulls on windows
to be washed away by rain eventually, or by the varying
intensity and amplitude of pain in an arm—is it truly all
but nothing? After all, if I learned anything over time,
it was to appreciate a piece of home-made flatbread
with Moroccan-style hummus and black or green olives,
spiced with Sir Roger’s complaints about nightingales
and strumpets at Spring Garden.
Living in a seaside town, it is nothing strange to run into seagulls fighting
over food scraps in front of a chip shop. Moreover, if you happen to have
a sandwich in hand, you can bet they will try to steal it, often successfully,
when you least expect an attack from above.
Living in a seaside town, at least once in your life you wiped their poo off
your head or some piece of clothing. Their cries are your lullabies at night
and wake you up better than an alarm clock in the morning.
Living in a seaside town, you hate them until you either move somewhere
else, learn to love them, or at least get along.
Living in a seaside town, you know they were here first.
hidden pilcrow 