Litkicks Message Board Archive

a word about a bird

Posted to Action Poetry

(what am i writing here: afraid to make sense.)

...I am the first bird pecking at a worm
and i am sad for the worm
and sad for the earth that must the hold the worm
and the earth that holds the earth
that spins around
and around
the sun
i am sad for these also
and i am sad for the wind
and sad for the suicides
and sad for the lost and the lonely...

...and i am not a bird
and this is just a poem
and we are just people
trying to get by
thinking of birds...

...and making conversation
in the smoking room
at lunchtimes
with Christine
who talks to herself and smokes

...and my arms are tired
and today on the bus i nearly went mad
and today on the bus
i composed reams of poems in my head
and my girlfriend surprised me
with three bottles of grolsch lager
and some cooked chicken
and i drank the lager and felt no better
about birds
or busrides or suicides
or my mother or my father
or the moon or the sun
or the smell of crumpets
or such things as winter
and the doling out of pain and bad news
and whatever is on the television
and whatever substances rack my twisted brain...

...and the poetry of the ages
from mallarme to baudelaire to verlaine
french whores dancing in a bucket of piss
crying about their mamas
and sluts dreaming of bruised apricots
while the dogs shit in the alleyways
and the doctor spits at his wife
near the cooker...

...and we are all so obscene really
and so beautiful and what the hell does it all
mean... have a name
and a face
and a mind that is interested in german philosophy
and the movement of subatomic particles...

...where do we go from this place
why does my head spin
why does my head spin
like nothing but a head spinning...

...and birds have nothing to do with anything
save the moment of that bird
when it is a bird and only
a bird
a bird
a bird
a bird
swimming in the sky licking at the clouds
lapping up infinity in daredevil formations
of no doubt...

...and i bend my knees in my mind
and i bend my knees on the carpet
and look at things dropped
and forget infinity for a while
and forget everything for a while
except that i have a name and can talk
and have hands
and have legs
and have a cock
and have a mind
and a wish to talk about birds
to complete strangers
to anyone who will listen
and not think me mad
to ramble into the silence
to yell internally at myself...

...and i have quite lost the thread
of the everywhere notions of silver dreamdom
of bird...