the meaningless death of a fish - ode to whitebait
Wrote a poem on the train home from Cambridge today - inspired by a title I thought of over dinner in London on a school theatre trip. James ordered a plate of whitebait and when this mountain of little crunchy yummy fish arrived he looked at it disgusted saying it wasn't what he expected (duh). It's rather a work in progress still.
The Meaningless Death of a Fish
- Ode to Whitebait -
At dinner, I dine on a
gross extravagance:
a plate of fried indulgence.
My arteries silently curse the delicious little fillets
as I crunch up tiny bones
heads and tails and all
and pause to ding a sharp and miniature vindictive fin
from between my teeth with a toothpick.
I hold one up to the light
and examine him:
a deep-fried pair of inches from head to tasty tail.
Do my reflections on the life of this little fellow
(impaled here upon my fork)
validate my eating? Especially compared with
the countless corpses remaining unconsidered,
waiting to be consumed,
on the plate before me.
Am I really a monster? Doesn't all
this philosophy
justify
the deaths of so many?
The Meaningless Death of a Fish
- Ode to Whitebait -
At dinner, I dine on a
gross extravagance:
a plate of fried indulgence.
My arteries silently curse the delicious little fillets
as I crunch up tiny bones
heads and tails and all
and pause to ding a sharp and miniature vindictive fin
from between my teeth with a toothpick.
I hold one up to the light
and examine him:
a deep-fried pair of inches from head to tasty tail.
Do my reflections on the life of this little fellow
(impaled here upon my fork)
validate my eating? Especially compared with
the countless corpses remaining unconsidered,
waiting to be consumed,
on the plate before me.
Am I really a monster? Doesn't all
this philosophy
justify
the deaths of so many?