god... don't you just love
the ones with subtle ridicule reflexes
in speech?
   only half an hour ago
i was picking beer from
a supermarket open fridge,
testing it against my cheeck
for the proper temp.
when being asked by
   the shelf-stacker
        to pursue his venture
  into stacking: making the bottles,
by labels, aligned...
   well... i was actually dipping
my hand into the back of
the fridge that: upon pressing
against my cheek
    were, the proper temp.;
ah... the bottles...
   corona... mexican beer...
and i do wish i could carry
a knife, to then buy a lime,
   and shove it down the bottle neck,
like...
           the guy who died
from suffocating on an oyster...
drinking in public...
   you mean... england...
in an area where there was
a stabbing incident,
  on the pave that i walk...
and i'm alone...
walking the streets at night...
and i'm glug-glug-glug
halfway down a bottle a beer...
anti-social?!
        ****... lay-deez und grunts!
we've arrived at mars!
   you're welcome.
   if this doesn't sell, i already know
that i'm broke...
            but you can't exactly
call today, with this afternoon,
a normal day...
         my "cerberus" managed to find
a sparrow in the bushes...
   while cooking a prawn carbonara...
so i chased him to the end
of the garden and said: zostaw!
       maybe this writing is what it's
supposed to be...
          i can't manage to comprehend
what happened after...
it's not exactly chicken farming...
out of curiosity...
       ever held a dying sparrow
in your hand?
        ever tried the vain attempt of,
first: ensuring the cat dropped its
play-toy,
      secondly: ease a bathroom tap
and implore (unconsciously)
   for the bird to take a sip?
oh... i forgot... big people deal
     with watching old people die...
or maybe just the odd Cain
mad on introducing euthanasia laws...
because... did that *******
of a grandson ever listen to
his grandfather talk ******* for
an hour and hid a yawn?
       sure as ****, some of them made
it into safer hands than familial
ties would ever allow...
      death by a synthesis of ******...
or its equivalent...
          but did p'ooh bear nanny
ever get a visit fwom her
            p'ooh bear grandchild?
evidently post-mortem doesn't
allow "care" to be discussed in journalism...
see...
          i remember that
hamster i was fooled into dropping
believing it could fly...
   but this sparrow i held in
my hand...
           seeing it transition from
shock...
       closed eyes...
   to a momentary state of surprise...
eager to sip the water flowing down
the bathroom tap...
             come to think of it...
it might have drowned from
taking a sip...
       as you do...
               little into the lungs and...
****!
          but when i shouted the cat
to drop it...
                   a secondary excavation:
can't change that machine of
utility...
       no matter how much you feed
it... the natural impetus is still there...
yet in my hand... a dying creature...
  and it literally started a spasmatic
last-resort mechanisation of
its body...
               a choking effect is
probably the best way to describe it...
   it wasn't a mature sparrow,
god knows where the nest was
situated, but you could tell:
the beak... was still "fresh"...
      i.e. yellow...
          not bark stiff deep
brown mingling
                                         with grey...
the cat would have eaten it,
and i, oh so deperately wanted
to be a brooks hatlen...
    then i remembered the hanging...
ah yes... the pitiful life...
       plenty of them that are dead
who wouldn't think so...
       a sparrow dying in your hand
is no big thing...
       it's not an earthquake...
most certainly...
                  it's not even an attempt
to cry...
               it's unlike having petted
something that invokes
                 a loss of a part of you,
embedded in the animal...
      beside the sparrow...
                  and we seem to be on confessional
terms... sámāél...
     now i hold what you hold
in your right arm...
   the rite of passing: a birth, a life,
a marriage...
                            a death... and a wake...
albeit less within the constraints
for the care for man...
        but more: on the frivolous...
             jittery side of existential affairs...
sure as **** i burried the sparrow...
right next to where i burried
   my former night companion...
   having hacked off a piece of a tombstone,
having taken to use a shovel...
to actually invoke him
to set tone to a blooming plum tree...
   hard though...
holding such a trivial aspect of reality
in your hand...
        and watching it die...
     how does death even amount
to a conspiration, in such a microcosm
of a sparrow's body, beheld by a mere libra
of a hand...
                      with what i could hold
                                                    in my right?
i tended to,
        what expired...
          but upon seeing the agony:
i first wanted to see a quickened extinction
by crushing it with a stomp...
     but then i chanced an intimate
realisation of shared breath...
      no one really writes
poems about sparrows dying in their
hands...
                                   do they?
   apparently when death happens:
everyone is always elsewhere...
                        certainly those behind
typing desks.
   - because chickens i will eat
and i can ****...
              but sparrows?!
                            fowl eggs is one thing...
  but looking for sparrow eggs?!
             that's borderline sadism if
not, just that.
    - no!
        who has had
    a sparrow die in their hand?!