I was a restless teenage mentalist
always searching the airwaves
trying to find something new. Pirate
stations would sometimes emerge
from thin slices of the dial

For a few days one played
*** Bomb by Flipper countless times
and it made quite an impression
on my bubbly fudge mind

All these years later I still get a mighty
kick out of listening to this
absurd joyous splurge
every few weeks

                        which may be
             a tragic or magnificent
      state of affairs it's
really not for me to decide

I like the activated almonds
Nostalgic for the rustling jimmies
Homemade coconut, milkshake duck
I let the archangels take him
✧ ͜ʖ ✧

Skill issue, Dandori issue
Press F to pay respects
Leave no dwarf behind
It's explained in CFYOW
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

4 squealers lined up ready for inspection
John [Series Name]
Temba, his arms wide
Flippin' bricks for Mansa Musa
ʕ·͡ᴥ·ʔ

Demand-pull, cost-push, built-in
        egg
eggflation for my troubled soul

Consumer price, producer price, house price
        egg
eggflation for your fevered brow

Creeping, walking, running, hyper
        egg
eggflation for our worried minds

Official, true, perceived and
       egg
eggflation for these desperate times

SCENE: we're back in the old house
where I long to reside in spite
  of it all but wait there's a long-haired sprite
   akin to The Ring girl circling
     aimlessly in the hallway likely an autonomoid
    waving a captive bolt pistol which
   looks like the one that belonged to your father
  who as a Victor slash Commando admirer
built himself you said it looked like Lego
   he didn't respond kindly to that observation
    a weapon ripe for incapacitation at least
  which we could do without at this juncture
(full disclosure he's buried under the garage)

ACTION: slam the kitchen door and tuck myself
out of sight behind the cooker
  wrestle off my restrictive overcoat
   I just feel freer in shorts and a tee
    grab a rolling pin who even has one of those anymore
     how about a knife, the knifes where are they
    <i>and what are you gonna do with a knife anyway?</i>
   consider hurling cricket ball style at the Ring head
  a chunky mug no that Filippo Berio bottle
the chopping board out of reach is sturdy but I hear a rattling

ACT TWO: my sister's voice urgent from outside 'come now'
I rush for the back door and one step two step
  along the path and onto the lawn follow her down
   to the gate sidle through the 'loose section' then
free into the woods, platonic escape, don't look back

Every step along the grass elicits a satisfying audio thud
the green shades and breezy lollop convincingly rendered
  my sister approaches from the west catches up
   her athleticism matches mine as it never did
    and we gallop in unison toward the perimeter
     a glorious second of release before she barks 'She's behind us!'
   I glance back and see the bolt pointed,
  blank fac'd in relentless pursuit

ANTICLIMAX: I round the corner with my twin
and we stumble upon the blessed mundanity
  of a bus stop
    but I left
   my card
  in my coat
in the kitchen

Throw your clothes down the mountain
okay maybe not all your clothes
retain some modesty lest ye become arrested
prosecuted and persecuted, we're not
looking to become a martyr

But bury your past, it really is the
smartest option, spilling it
just keeps the quacks in their high chairs

And lose the attitude, please
even if it means stop being so much
of your 'authentic self'
the social armour must be discarded
scrub away your harsh layers

Shed the shed
can the can
reject the rejects, and
scrap the scrappers

Convert all your physical media
all the books and all the records of your lifetime
and toss em in a skip (UK)
or hold a garage sale (US)

Abandon, not all hope, but expectation
             he's getting deep, and a little
             holier-than-thou preachy
             yes it's rather sickening

             Easy to say throw your shoes in the lake
             sure I'll torch my car while I'm at it

             But will he ditch the high cholesterol lifestyle
             has he sold off his stocks, dispersed his gains and
             does he wander the urban desert clad in a loincloth

             Or is he snug, plump and smug in his mansion
             talking to shadows on the wall
             gesticulating impotently via the medium

You misunderstand as ever
you wilfully misunderstand

Just looking to simplify
remove all obstacles, pare it down
to whatever it is
we need to get by

I don't require a saviour
not asking for much, just
an elbow for when
the leaves are dripping
in the cold midnight

Another human figure
to cling to when you're
lost in the wet woods
and quickly it falls
dark with the shivering chill

When there are faces or
at least eyes, glowing
& whispers in an unknown
tongue, now you could

Use a humanoid to soothe
the fevered brow or
better still guide us
towards a sunlit exit

KRRRT-chack! (Old One-Eye snaps his beak, wings puffed.)

CHREEE-Kaa! (Young Tailflick lands beside him, tilting her head.)

Old One-Eye: Krrt-chack! Krrt-chack!
A warning: sky-fox (hawk) nearby. Sharp wing. Fast death. Stay low.

Tailflick: CHREE! Chree-ka-ka-ka-KA!
Disbelief. Bravado. She flew near it. Stole a beetle mid-glide. No fear.

Two-Wing-Drum: DRRRRR-kak-kak-kak! (Wings slapping trunk.)
Challenge. Boast. He saw her. Beetle was already dead. Empty glory.

Tailflick: Ka-KA-KA-krrrrrp!
Insult. Two-Wing eats rotten fruit. Mind like snail. Beak like old bark.

Chirpette (a tiny, newly-fledged thing): tzeep-tzeep-tzee?
Confusion. What is “death?” What is “hawk?” Can you eat it?

Old One-Eye: GRAWWWK. (Low, guttural.)
Silence. Night is coming. Time for truth, not noise.

(All birds still. Then, slowly, a rattling murmur builds—)

All Together: chrr-chrr-CHAAA, kr-kr-ka-KAW, chreeeee-CHACK, tzzzzrr!
The Sharing begins. Gossip. Echoes. Stolen things.

Bent-Beak: chack-chack. Chack.
He found shine. Blue-glass-circle. Deep hole near water.

Three-Toe: Krrreeek! KA-ka-ka!
Jealous. He saw it first. Bent-Beak just louder.

Tailflick: cheeeeeeee. (Slow, high pitch.)
Dream. She flew so high her wings turned to cloud. Chased stars. Bit the moon.

Old One-Eye: KRRRRAW-CHAK.
Reminder. Dreamers fly crooked. Sky is not gift. Sky is blade.

(Wind rustles. A squirrel chitters nearby. All heads snap in unison.)

Chirpette: tzee?
Can we eat it?

All Together: KAW-KAW-KAW-KAW! (A terrible cacophony of agreement.)

No one flies. Just noise. Noise is hunt. Noise is dance. Noise is magpie. Twelve dark shapes tuck heads into wings. One eye each on the moon. Still dreaming of shine.