AWARDED SECOND PLACE IN THE PHILIP PYKE MEMORIAL PRIZE 2026
Thou art like a rotting pear
lost in a secluded picnic
basket. Once sweet,
now soft and cumbersome with
drink and conspiracy. No shine
to thee no more, only
stink of grass and missed
opportunity.
“Wake up”, thou urge me, and
smell the roses. I say touch grass,
snivelling knave. Thou let the slop
on the clock
consume thee. The snake latches
on its tail. My sweet pear—thy
scent is quite obscene.
More like a durian,
thy fleshy filth infests my better fruit.
Thou art one despicable foe,
envy of Narcissus himself. Shame,
the looking glass
cracked, splintered, foiled,
when thou dared look upon me.
For if not thy mirror, who am I
but a miserable wretch to clown upon thee?
