Tuesday, February 28, 2012

High, flying fish

My fingers start to bleed
as I thump prayer into these keys.
I ignore the pain and tell it
I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend it
but I'll turn right round the bend and mend it
as soon as I encircle my own sweet muscle.
I need to get on with my tussle
with my mind; so now, I need to suckle
so I can hope, one day, to stop sucking knuckle.

When the rouge trickles down
calloused digital mandibles, it drowns
all the vanity and insanity,
bringing truth to reality,
reinstating precious gravity.
When two and two start making four
not cos the elder fraternity told you so,
but because you've come to know
that you can control the way the river flows.
You can set it in motion,
And you can merge it with the ocean
and then drink the mixture up like magic potion;
let it soothe your veins like lotion
Just hold on to this notion.

Great birds know they need all the seed they can stock
So they throw caution to the wind and just feed round the clock.
When the aviators fly, they cry;
so their fledglings open wide
and they swallow all their pride.
Birdbrains are deceptive.
They trick you with their perspective,
forcing you to be receptive
to their ideas, sans contraceptive.
We know we're dwarfed by your gigantic wings,
and our voice sounds gravelly like when a crow sings,
but we're biding our time and counting our things
and once we've organised our nests and smoothed our chinks,
we'll find ourselves at the place where the rainbow brings.
So don't you dare stop short.
Please reconsider if you intend to abort.
Flap those arms like you're fleeing from Voldemort.
If you're panting, think of it as a sport
You're on hole no. 17, or at a tennis court.
Pump that blood. Feel your water. You never need ask for more.

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