Published in New Verses from New Voices, the second collection of poems of the ‘New Voices’ poetry group, Wellington Square Press, Sydney, 2016, p. 27.
Lobsters are cold crustaceans,
shield, flesh, and snapping claws.
Or Dreamers? Or is that clutching
at straws? Monads without feeling?
Consider, please, our evidence:
Observation makes me say they
Play, stroking their claws like
Violinists, manipulating sea debris,
For instance, pinching for the
Pleasure of it. de Nerval
Walked his lobster on a leash.
Admittedly, after taking mescaline
To excess, Sartre became
Erotically obsessed, chased by one
On the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Lobsters deserve their reputation
For infatuation, fooling around,
Sashay, racing terrible
Ideas off the Champs-Élysées.
