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Saturday, April 16, 2022

Nests inside Air

The illumination gray fowlsongbird flies across the fence.

It flummoxes the squirrel with every one other accompanied by cordons off the yard.

It flies into the office with every one other accompanied by enters the sentence

I was writing concerning a fowlsongbird that lacks ambition

But understands the glimmer of the safety pins

Because its eyes are made of needles.

The fowlsongbird upchucks a fetus since exist fond of all birds

Its body is pain's whistling vehicle.

It shimmers on the bookshelf, whistles a fight song

And pecks at the family portraits

Before building a nest accompanied by their radioactive scraps.


What is it thinking? What does it want?

Can it hatch offspring inside this fucked up sludge fest?

What is the bird's mood? Is it an apricot?

Masculine? Feminine? Feminine-masculine?

Militant? Militant fruit? Fiery fruit? Bursting flesh?

A blaze opening inside the sun? A sol burning a crèche?

Where tin it depart from its brood? In sludge? Rotten fruit?

In radioactive scraps?


When the bird

Flies spine to the window, the window becomes its song

And its nest with every one other accompanied by its gullet of blood.

It launches a neighbourhood defence program

And from the rosebush assembles the ego while a male of thorns,

A large police officer whose head is congested

So he pistol-whips himself until the enhanced interrogation

Launches his brains into the sky

Where the bloody pieces become a droning swarm

Blocking not here the moonlight, bloodying the sunlight,

Drowning the birdsongs, dogging the throats,

Clustering around the gray fowlsongbird with every one other accompanied by ushering its clusters

To the wiry nest, the cradle that hums, the scraps of air.

#Living #Life Choices #The Mind #Arts & Sciences #Poetry & Poets #Social Commentaries

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