a meal out of an octopus

Poem #278 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

how do you know
the octopus
does not fly

the voice came
from a black and white
striped leech
which clung


from a wet leaf

have you not seen him
his arms behind him
through the water

is his atmosphere not
after all
and eddies


just like the air

the spider
all legs and eyes
and weavings

cares nothing
for the octopus

cares nothing
for watery

a web
that knows the trapping
of a creature
intent on expounding
a subject
of which it was only
a faux master

and slippery
a meal is
a meal

© Frank Prem 2018

Bachelard and me Poem #279: why the painter

3 thoughts on “a meal out of an octopus

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