Seagulls

Mischievous chip-stealing birds.

Author’s note: This poem benefits from context, but I prefer not to give much away — I’m always curious how the reader interprets a poem, what feeling or emotion might rise in them. It’s absurd and slightly surreal, but I can assure you, in its own strange way, everything in the poem happened over a weekend in St Leonard’s-on-Sea.

Seagulls

You shat on the last
fragile fragments of my heart
just like the seagull
that shat on my car.
If only I had known from the start
that Hastings would give us
the tastings of what was to come.

A suicidal dive
slammed into the tarmac of the M25.
Dante’s dream by my bed,
a crucifix above my head—
unorthodoxy envelops us,
while we search for chamber pots.

The word of God deserting us
under the mask it feels too hot.
We wash our hands
make castles out of sand—
castles that slip and crumble,
as we take a tumble.
We pray for time
and hope this doesn’t leave a scar.
Time has flown hand in hand
with the seagull that shat on my car.

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