I regularly workshop my fiction with some of my colleagues on the Albedo One editorial team. Recently some of them - you know who you are you **star*s - have brought along poetry. Now, I'm famously broadminded, but my opinion of poetry remains unchanged from school days when Keats and Shelley were rammed down my throat. But I was on a plane a while ago, atempting to sleep in a seat designed by a Spanish Inquisitor with a hatred of anyone above the height of five four. So, not much sleep, then. But I awoke with a poem in my head and it wouldn't go away. So I wrote it down and left it on my desk where, naturally, random papers accumulated on top. This morning I found it and, fairly radiating with a love of all humankind, I decided to sling it out into the void. It doesn't even have a title but what the hell, here goes:
Two monochrome giants bend solicitously over me,
Their huge mouths scream noise at me in a register that only my obsolescent fillings can sense,
As I race heedlessly through my mayfly existence.
If the psychiatrist is in he might just take a look at that.