Birdman


Often in dreams I'm flying. I'm a bird. Not to be a bird in reality
is the thing. I'm good at it, an expert, gliding — hovering just above
the ground waiting to fall but never doing so. And back again. The
landscape is the landscape of dreams flat pack and pure colour:
Notions of disdain, chthonic disclosures. A large silver cage.
That anyone might walk through. Do we want this analysed?
He used a whistle and a smile, she had a pale blue dress on.
She was playing in the sand or the dirt with two Timpo cowboys.
One had a white Stetson the other a bird in its hand that flew.
The silver cage was a thing of beauty, so large made by craftsmen
Hallmarked for London that anyone might walk through.
You said you wanted to hate me. She rubbed her knee.
A taste of alcohol was the idea. You thought you had a chance to
escape. There were black dirt balls or sausage roll shaped dirt balls
from his hand? On a thigh. He used to slam the door and sit in the
toilet all night for fear of confrontation. A gull takes flight, it
plays the piano in the air — Mozart I think. Come over come near.
It cannot settle. It leaps from tree to tree. She unpeels his foreskin
smells his flesh takes his penis in her mouth. And up and down.


Oh earth oh mother. Let the rope go.
Become new. A sky blackens with starlings waltzing they
shit down the close and down the windows and a scraper
is needed. It is dull the sky is overcast and cold everywhere
is full of water. It's a Wednesday afternoon life is hateful.
It's like that. I'm flying now. I am bird. I am
horizon and then some. Oh earth Oh mother let the rope
go. The sky blacks and distorts a man looks up. . . Let
the rope go.