Poetry Wednesday (working title): berds!

i's happy when i hear birds

awake in the distance

of mornings unslept in

of days that promise nothin but gloom

of small hours that speak subtleties about

this spherical cube (we live on)

birds that

it would appear

can only sing because speaking is beyond them

but who in thier disability serve

a population ostensibly drawn to excellence.

who can't smell it coming but

keep ears tuned

to rumshops

for thier ideas of the day.

rumshops with conditioned air

and conditioned poets

armed with fm frequencies and

alexander bell's wet dreams

sybaritic fuckers

who read and spell for the

drunkards

who recieve correspondence in zen

i know

i've been watching disapprovingly

minutes after the techno session began

a session so long it

effects epiphanies.

i see these.

(these)birds return at the end of day

after this delivered on its promise

fucking with the mind of a nation

force fed designs of grandeur

visions based on vision

singing a chune that

makes for nauseating listening at 7

partly because it obscures news of

your brother found

embracing warm asphalt

like damged goods

delivered by storks with sickles

avian's fluster themselves

fluttering fingerless hand signals

but wit such pomp that you smile like is maths class.

you know like when they were doing simultaneous equations

til months later you fail every last one.

and get it in retrospect

birds, flailing in arrogance

their words clearer

speak of one nest

one way to build a nest

and one manner in which to fill it

who flit between

indignation

and interpretation

who use mango tree branches

as pulpits

who construct pulpits in honour of

thier branches

who all sing from the same book

but inflect at different points

i walk past these

on sidewalks

while they

accost with books

disseminated at no cost

hoping to awake

much like pamphlets

from bomb bays,

beating story compilations

with enough fervour

frothing at the beak

relating how

greater birds

did greater things than

focus on Freudian goals

flew a path that

most wouldn't

but that those birds

were those birds

meanwhile

unwritten are countless tomes

of birds

shittin

on

people