Octopussy, a terrible poem

Chel Owens

My darling, sumptuous, suctioned
Model of a mop head mother
Take my arm
No, not that one
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor that
Nor -wait! There’s the one;
Take it, my Hun,
Hardly knowing how much I love you
My dear
It’s clear
You’ll store the future like a forty-day fridge,
Including my present; though, of me, it’s just a smidge.
Then, hang our darling hybrids round the rocks
It’s Christmas in our summer sea!
Just you and me –
Except, not me.
For, you see
It cannot be.
It’s not you, it’s m- the babies!

masaaki-komori-Lu9z9qS8I_Q-unsplash

The male octopus uses a special arm to remove his sperm packet, then place it inside the female octopus. After storing the eggs and sperm for a while (forty days for one species), she hangs the eggs from rocks and crevices and wipes them with her mate’s present.

For some reason, the male dies within 3 days of reproducing. The female dies a month after delivering her babies.

Photo Credit:
Masaaki Komori

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

33 thoughts on “Octopussy, a terrible poem”

      1. I think the stories and music etc etc will all go down the plughole on my demise! Sort of like the majority of stuff Bach and his friends wrote. There seems to be a prevalent notion at this time in the West that one should write for posterity and not for today!!

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          1. None of the greats wrote for both – most wrote to put bread on the table! or for next Sunday’s Divine Service! (On another note altogether – since you’ve made it more difficult to comment – having to log in first – there’s no way any likes I give to comments of others registers unless I have commented first myself. It’s probably a fault on my side – but gymnastics was never my thing!)

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