Michael Batchelor's Blog, page 10

Death

You know
When a celebrity dies
And they were in their 90s
People always have the same reaction
‘Oh no, that’s terrible’
‘What a tragedy’
‘How horrific’
And I’ve never understood it
Because the average life expectancy
Is 80-odd
And we die
No matter what
So didn’t the celebrity
Have a good run?
Shouldn’t we be saying something like:
‘Well done’
‘Such a long life’
‘What a blessing
To have lived that long'

I dunno
Maybe I’m being insensitive

Individualism

Bark like a pigeon
Wear socks on your ears
Speak gibberish to your colleagues
Walk on all fours
Bake a cake with salt
Run down an upwards escalator
Stare at a tree
Converse with an eggplant
Write with your feet
Let the dog walk you

Be an individual
And damn the collective
Who pretend to celebrate
Individualism

The Poem

You know what I love
About the poem
You can write one
About absolutely anything
You can write a poem
About a toenail
A cat
A clump of dirt
Venus
The state of Texas
And it can be short
Without plot
Or character development
And still have merit
So long as there’s feeling
Behind the fingernails

The Fantasy

Wouldn’t it be nice
If God
Pushed his head
Through the clouds
(preferably on a Sunday)
And said:
‘War, torture, rape - cut it out!’
And 8 billion people
Would look up
In awe
And terror
And then he’d say:
‘Anyone who does it gets a one-way ticket to hell.’
And then he’ll pull his head
Out of our pond
And go lecture
Another doomed planet

But enough with
This fantasy

Charity

My mother had asked
To stay with us
And when I asked my father
And stepmother about it
They told me not to
And that I was being selfish
To my wife
Even though she'd agreed to do it
And I didn't tell them
At the time
But I'll tell them now
When they read this
Which they won't
Charity isn't supposed to be
Convenient
Or self-serving
And if you can't help
Your family
You can't help anyone

The Cafe

I'm sitting at a cafe
On a cold winter's morning
Everyone else is sitting inside
In the warmth
And I'm sitting outside
With the cold wind
And the rustling leaves
And my company
Is an old Asian lady
Hunched over her walker
Pacing up and down
In front of me
And it's these insignificant moments
On forgettable days
That makes life
So wonderful

Gatekeepers

I worry that the publishing houses
Don’t publish everyone
Anymore
That they only want a certain book
From a certain author
Even if it’s not well-written
So long as it follows their ideology
It gets printed

And I can hear your counterargument
That I’m being paranoid
Or bitter
That I’m not in bookshops

But if I’m right
And publishing houses
Have become propaganda machines
Then I have no choice
But to keep complaining
And writing
From the outside

Skygazer

It’s so hard
To focus on my job
My pointless job
In the grand scheme of things
When I look out the window
At the clear sky
And wonder
What’s out there?
Is it god?
Or aliens?
Or nothing?
And yet instead
I’m expected to take my job
Which is fixing up AI-generated crap
Seriously

I suppose
You can’t look out the window
All day

That would be unproductive

Choices

Twix
Cherry Ripe
Boost
Mars
Feastables
Twirl
KitKat
Toblerone
Netflix
Stan
Binge
Apple TV
Paramount+
Amazon Prime Video
Disney+
Beer
Wine
Scotch
Vodka
Bourbon
Tequila
Whiskey
Drama
Comedy
Thriller
Romance
Standup
Cats
Dogs
Birds
Guinea pigs
Snakes
Honda
Toyota
Ford
Suzuki
Mazda
VW
Ferrari
On
And
On
And
On
And
On

People don’t do well
With too many choices

The Poems

My god it’s hard
To get a book out
To stick with it
For so damn long
But the poem
The sweet, short poem
Is so easy
I just vomit my thoughts of the day
Onto a document
Upload it
And there it is
A poem
Simple
Easy
With feeling
Valid
But the publishers
Don’t want the poems
They want the books
And they've got their
Shopping list
Of rules
Not too short
Not too long
Make sure the characters
Say this
Do that
And follow a certain ideology
And now I’m not sure
If I want to
Play by their rules anymore
So maybe
For a while
I’ll stick with the poem
Which is worthless
Yet maybe
Worthwhile