The Moonfish & The Astronaut

 

—Poetry by Marcus Ten Low, Brisbane, Australia

—Public Domain Photos

of a moonfish called “wonder”

the astronaut’s headpiece was a fishbowl,
his head the circular domain of a metaphorical fish.

that’s one small step for man,
but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree,

you can see exactly how few neurons whizz by
on a craterous surface of utter desolation.

behold, a zillion miles away, the infant terrible bashing
at the piano. behold his mother, like virgin Mary,

wailing in the backdrop for someone to save
their punitive souls. in the convex mirror

the astronaut, proceeding swimmingly,
left dusty footprints and stuffed up his one moment of fame

and we see, as if in soporific motion, the terrors
of the depths of space, as if that were a choice

and the sea were only up to our necks.
the lanternfish planted the US flag in the dirt,

a grimy thing that symbolised nothing
but patriotic pride. disgusting, in an age where

the oceans will be fishless by 2048,
unless Jesus returns to spawn the last one into thousands. 

 

 

 

 

 

in the mental institution on an ordinary day

tessellations lived on the gowns we were required to wear
knowing we wore nothing beneath those gowns;

but the patterns grew in our eyes, too,
mesmerised by the fear of the needle—

and the invirility that the drugs would so cause
to our rising erections. queer

were our considerations, we tottered around barefoot
supping over trays of flat or packaged meals thrice a day,

flimsily rousing a stage-presence among other patients.
splitting conversations like delicate matchsticks, into two or more.

the veils of smokers clouded our nostrils and visions,
keeping nonsmokers at bay. we looked out

at a fragment of the sky, sharded by the rooftops.
the most colorful of birds visited our little tree,

and for that brilliance, they became drunk on the sugar
in little sachets left out for them, chortling. 

 

 

 

 

Of a child that died within me
(a treatise on the relative value of feminism)

We always left the modern art galleries
With a sense of dread:
Never fully understanding the experience,
Yet regarding it as a cultural ticket to keep existing.
To keep returning, occasionally.

Typically they portrayed the birth within oneself
As a gollum, shrivelled, almost a carcass
Growing within the womb of a virginal, beautiful girl.
I felt like that girl.

They say men will never comprehend what it means
To be the bearer of new life.
Women walk manfully in the spell of feminist
Protestation, the blood being—if not on their hands—
Then in their vaginas as if from the penile “swords” of men.

Many women have tried—and failed—to achieve
Greatness. For it is in affectation of men that greatness
Can be insurrected, like that gollum of a fetus,
Rearing its fragile, writhing head, and clambering from within.

God himself is a man. The patriarchy of millennia
Holds benevolence with a strange shadow
Cast upon nonhuman sentients,
Somehow bestowing them with lesser importance.
And yet the female vegan, frail, veiled

By societal norms, exists as a marblesque representation
Not of strength, not of virility,
But of the most surprising forms of endurance.

If the world were to achieve peace,
It would be merely a piece, surreptitious and trembling,
Of what has been. A half-mask of the identity of men,
Seen within the mind’s eye, but never fully understood,
Never fully gleaned. 

 

 

 

 

reflections of a human pig

in the dormitory menu was “pigs in a blanket”.
waking from his dream, Ralph took this literally,
inferring pigs wallowing in a “blanket” of clouds,
whiffling and nuzzling each other.

the boys and girls ate their ham
without questioning its origins, whereas Ralph,
he carefully removed and stored his chorizo slice
and mincingly devoured the thin bread slices only.

reading Solomon Grundy, which was a very short story,
but reciting it repeatively for its mirth, Ralph
realised he too had a piggish nose, snobby in a way,
and sensitive to both wafting odors and the sounds

of ridicule, if any might think him a pig.
pigs were, of course, denigrated for being evil
(“nazi pig” was used offhand), and humans romped around
in delightful wearing of pigs’ heads on their shoulders,

mostly as a symbolic mask of menace,
as well as signifying life after a horrid death.
grotesque, some realised, but they ate in silence,
devouring piece after piece of remnants of a pinkish life.

Ralph reserved slices of ham remained within
the fridge compartment. before they could putrefy,
perhaps they should have been stolen and devoured
by some hungry coward rummaging in the contents there

one night, or perhaps even looking for scraps to feed
the birds. Yes, Ralph was in many ways a runt
of the humans he associated with, and never quite realised
that symbolising his respect for pigs was utter madness. 

 

 

 

 

 

Random fact

If you’re weird enough,
Doubtless you’ll be a pioneer.

Smoothing the edges of this manuscript
Made the reader think, something she
Never really did before. It was not so much
A case of adore, but

The poet lives in our hearts, striking at
The most plaintive truths in a new and
Shocking
Way.

Eyes jitterbugging across the page;

The way you might stroke a baby and his
New tufts of hair, readying it to a life
Of conformity. Banal and twisted,
How we always do it. It looks at you

Bulbous; aware.

Wisdom is not a state of being,
But acting to enable the enlightening
Of all in your wake. (

One can be venerated, but a degenerate
Fool. We all fart, but make of these
What you desire. We all emit waste.)

What we draw on the page
Has a past: construed, vicious, untame.

Frightening was how we defined ourselves
In terms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
Intrinsically associated with victim status and power.
But if you were tenacious (
Like Sylvia Plath)

That was not what you suffered. You created.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

—Sylvia Plath

 

_______________________

 

 

 

 

___________________________

 

G'day and welcome to the Kitchen to Marcus Ten Low, writing for us all the way from Brisbane! Marc is a writer-poet, musician vegantinatalist, failed (but revived) comedian and the inventor of the dubious concept of livingmodelling. Based in Brisbane, Australia, Marc was born in Canberra, 1979, and excelled at school throughout his childhood. But, upon reaching senior school at Canberra Grammar School, he became distracted and tormented as a result of unexplained esoteric experiences and fell out with the rest of his family from that point.
 
Disillusioned with society yet keen to help repair the world’s great problems, he became almost fully vegan from 1996, and in 1998 wrote his poetic masterpiece, "Inland Surfer". In May 2005 he was arrested cold by police and since then incurred more than 20 incarcerations and has had numerous altercations with the police and Mental Health Authority in Australia. He remains their involuntary client.

Marc has been producing videos for his YouTube channel, “Vegan Marc”, since September 2017. He commenced an online law course in mid-2020 with the University of New England, Australia. In the world of poetry and journalism, he has been published multiple times in journals such as Quadrant, The Big Issue (Australia), and by the famous fantasy author, Piers Anthony.

Welcome to Medusa’s Kitchen, Marc, and don’t be a stranger!

For more about the moonfish, see www.britannica.com/animal/moonfish-fish-Carangidae-and-Menidae-families/.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

Marcus Ten Low

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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