Oh – the flaps of thy cheeks may oft spat forth the chips of thy shoulder – and yet if one loops one’s tongue around thy cheek’s cauldron then so it may be said simply that a shift in a story may shuffle out the story to shove the reader.
To the field, the field: why are we drawn to this empty field? What is here amongst grass and what do these breezes wish to touch? Nothing here but the buzzing of insects and the screams of these swift migrant birds. The birds whistle as steam forced through a hot aperture: Send News Send News Send News. Yet the birds are bound to their freedom, this flight cannot be stilled, and so they never hear the news.
The screams and the foregone news. Foregrounded and forgotten, the screams.
The screams and the flight are aligned to the stars.
The darkness of these birds, a feathered void. At night they are sucked up, darkness toward darkness; pinned to transit by the violence of stars. The day is for chasing. The birds chase forgetting, weaving around the axial certainty of a thermal. At night the darkness of the bird is stabbed by stars. A feathery void is punctured, and screams escape through these cold apertures.
Oh – the flaps of thy cheeks may oft spat forth. The spasms of mouth drooled over yon page. Thy creased dignity shoved down the lacey tricksy of thy tongue. And the loop de-loop of this fire; how do we ever unpick it?