"birdcage" poems
Once I was a king loathed by my kingdom.
I was a machine built from the toughest iron nothing could break through.
I left my emotions to rust in the rain and murdered them in the cold night.
But I let my ego hold my strings and now I can't even treat a human right.
I meet a manic on the south side of town.
With a cane in hand and his mind locked in a birdcage since the war.
He was a maniac for trusting me and loving me and all my iron core.
I don't believe his tales for,
he is dead on the inside.
Departed from his heart,
He says he feels more alive this way.
With a cigarette in my hand, I hope for his life to never feel alone again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
my birdcage was a stuffed bear and my bird was a moth. oddly the bird protected my sister from knowing she was molested and oddly its cage promised my brother he would again be gay. oddly only because it was planned. I was more spelled than born and consented often to being sounded out. I carried with me a grey blanket that I held like a curtain when asked. my eyes were peepholes I had to avoid.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Namaste
The divine in me
recognizes the
divine
in you
the part of me
that ashes her
handrolled cigarette
all down her top
on accident
who wears someone
else's black rimmed
plastic glasses
they're the wrong perscription
but there's no reason
the world shoudn't
appear a little blurry
hearts are farther away
than they may seem
behind the thin
layer of skin
and tissue
the fragile
birdcage frames
that protect them
If I were a zombie
I'd eat hearts instead
of brains
that way I'd know
what it was to taste love
I've had enough of people's
thoughts and opinions
I wanna taste the ache
for a change
and ingest the chambers
that held all your exs
and family
your friends
the divine in me
eats the divine in you
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
Tuesday's got a broken hot rod
It drives too slow, or doesn't go
Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead,
has creativity at best
has no productivity
but many things to arrest
And she's not only a loner
driving on a road,
she just doesn't want an answer
wants to keep her glow
Where is it?
Not where she thinks it is
Not in the trunk
not in the birdcage with the canary
not in the pistol in her kiss
Where is Tuesday going?
Not to Wednesday, that's for sure
Thursday's daydream makes her
unable to settle down anymore
She smiles, the sun is setting
If only Tuesday could learn to fix
that broken hot rod already
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
I think I would like to make a home of your body
Like the dens I used to make with my siblings,
Before I started saying "no thanks".
To take a doctor's scalpel,
Clean and new and never used
And so very, very sharp
And to rest it in the hollow just where the breastbone ends.
Then to push it in along your soft smooth shiny skin
So unlike the mottled scarring that covers mine.
Down, down, down
To where you wear the waistband of your jeans.
A horizontal swipe at the top,
At the bottom,
Like making the fold of a window in a paper house.
Shh, is anyone home?
Lifting the heavy, wet flesh,
Your rib cage is so very white
And so very perfect
Like special cutlery for special occasions-
Births and weddings and funerals.
They hide your lungs,
Bloodshot and tired of the
Eternal
Moving and moving and moving on and on and on
Your stomach, soft
And vulnerable in its hideousness
Yet it hides the despicable necessity
Of human life.
And your heart,
Plump and fresh and young,
It is restless and strains
But for what when all that lies outside
Is incomprehensible and unnerving and unwelcoming.
So I will leave it all behind
And with damp heavy fatigue crawl
Into your torso like the unborn child
We have all been and will be again.
And your ribs will cradle me like a birdcage
That has grown so sick of the world,
And your organs will cushion and comfort me
When I feel that I do not want to live.
And blood will cover everything
Just as I have always wanted.
Flooding my eyes and nose and mouth and ears
And bathing me in the warmth, the constant gentle pounding,
That would make me feel alive.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
In my chest there is a bird
Who's fluttering spurs all my words
A muffled song her sorrows sing
In ribcage trapped a fragile thing
My body is a birdcage
And butterflies, those wicked things
They dart around on razor wings
My insides now all ribbons be
My body is a birdcage
Translucent skin on hallow bones
And as time goes emptiness grows
A song once sung now no one knows
My body is a birdcage
Now windswept ribs begin to bleach
Sandshifted joints begin to preach
The heavens high a bird does reach
From what was once a birdcage
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
My arms are wings,
That flap,
Flap,
But never seem to get me off the ground.
My mind is a birdcage,
That keeps me trapped here,
In these melancholy thoughts and delusions,
And keep me tripped on acid,
Although I have never taken the pills.
Maybe someday,
I can break free of this hell,
The key is dangling just out of my reach,
And these arms will surely grow.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I see the way you
look at me.
I smile and laugh
right in your face.
Taunt me with freedom,
will you?
You shall not
conquer me!
You have enslaved
my body.
You may never have
my soul.
You circle my cage,
like a hungry cat.
This canary sings to you,
challenges you.
**** me if you dare,
for our roles will change
in the next life!
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 8:50 PM UTC
I wake her for the Sun that explains itself though plants
For the sky stretched between fingers
I wake her for words which burn the throat
I love her with my ears
One should go to the ends of Earth and find the dew on the grass
I wake her for some distant things
That look alike the ones
Here
For the people with no face nor name passing down the street
For the anonymous words of squares I wake her for the
Manufactured landscapes of public parks
I wake her for this planet of ours that might become a mine in the bleeding sky
I wake her for the smiles in the stone of comarades that fell asleep
Between two battles
When sky was no longer a big birdcage but
An airport
My love full of others is a part of dawn
I wake her for the dawn, for love, for myself, for others,
I wake her, even if it is more in vain than to call a bird
That landed forever
She must have said: let him look for me and see that I am gone
That woman with the hands of child that I love
That child fallen asleep with tears still not wiped, which I wake
In vain, in vain, in vain
In vain I wake her
For she will wake up different and new
In vain I wake her
For her mouth will not be able to tell
In vain I wake her
You know the water runs through but says nothing
In vain I wake her
A lost name should be promised to someone's face in sand
If it's not so cut off my arms and turn me into a stone.
Written by Branko Miljkovic
Iconic Serbian poet, one of the leaders of Neo Symbolist movement
This translation was provided by A. Milanovic
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
my mind
is a birdcage
rotten
with blood
and feathers
©KNL
Sep 15, 2023
Sep 15, 2023 at 1:12 AM UTC
birthed into a golden birdcage
safe behind upstanding spindles
endless nectars and suet at your beckon
knowing only the showcase of your plumage
and the sound of your tunes
layers remain
between you and the grackles
painted a nuisance
yet they stay unshackled
only poisoned and disregarded.
still they know the freedoms
not found atop
swings and perches
dig deeper
until you find what lurches.
the gate can be opened
when you realize yourself
to be the gatekeeper
yielding what's mine
using wings of more than feathers
making up for lost time.
looking back at the captivity
you couldn't see from inside.
entering a new world
with the grackle as my guide.
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 4:29 PM UTC
A beautiful day in February.
A few birds singing much too early.
A black SUV.
An awkward hello between
A girl and her father...
A phone call.
A surprise...
An absence of good news.
A problem.
A dismissal.
A tear drop-
A heart-tearing sob.
An unexpected fight on the way home to mom.
A car door slammed,
A front door key fumbled.
An avoided confrontation, also
An avoided consolation.
A soft noise bedside:
A scratch from
A cat come to investigate;
A simple, good soul.
A rub on a leg,
A pat on a furry head.
A purrrrrrrr.
A change of heart,
A fast ascension to a seated position.
A decision resulting in determination.
No more tears.
No coffee today.
No fights with the wrong side.
No wrecking ball of shame.
No tower of regret.
No birdcage of immaturity,
No, no more cages.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Noises all around.
Spinning round, and round.
An endless circle with only sound.
People around me use their mouth, not to speak for a purpose.
No. They talk, move their mouths constantly. Why?
Only to make noise, chaos, and sound.
Im sitting in the birdcage. Noises all around.
My thoughts are somewhere else. But the noises are following me around.
Leave me alone! Can't I just block it all out?
Get away from the noise, all the sound. All the people who make me this miserable....
No. Im still sitting here. Trapped in the birdcage, with noises all around.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Daylight fades too quickly
and leaves you struggling like a dead fish
against a time limit you have no intention
of keeping or realizing, in even a small fashion.
The money runs out.
The money always runs out and
everyone is looking for a handout
no one wants to give.
Especially those who can afford it-
it's like a void;
a golden density not even light can escape.
Makes me wonder; "Is the money really power,
or is power just power,
and the hierarchy and patriarchy and system
just keep whatever stains in place, despite their incompetence?"
History seems to provide ample answers to the right questions;
Why does the day feel so short?
Why does retail labor feel like a pyramid scheme?
Why does work feel like prison?
Why are employers so scared of unions?
Whatever, right? Those ******* would give you an answer
after three separate commercial breaks and a survey.
Everyone views the person under their foot as less than human.
It's how we're able to procreate and sleep at night
[a night that comes quicker every day now].
A curtain over a birdcage; we're all just dozing off.
******* around.
Studying everyone else's face,
looking for a nervous twitch to decipher
whose bluffing,
believing we're doing swimmingly in our own ********
The next generation built on our corpses, secrets and lies.
Corpses, secrets, and lies.
Let the world burn if we can make it past daylight.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Four
*******
walls.
Every material comfort,
And nothing else.
-
This room may as well be
completely ******* empty.
I am a songbird,
locked inside a birdcage.
I need to spread my wings,
I need to travel again,
I need to fly once more.
I need the open road and the ocean air.
I need the red dust and snow-speckled mountains.
I need the endless trees and campfires.
I need the pillar of smoke under the stars.
I need to be free.
N.H.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
The fingernails of my brain brim
Horizons of grime. Can’t seem to keep them paws
Out of the dirt.
And the dirt lives on the ground, so its head is always
Down.
And it claws like a dog spraying a groove under a fence
After he’s picked up in the scent what it would be like
To roll in the other grass, which is the same grass, but it’s
Across the pickets.
It’s the uncovering, and it’s dead awfully hard.
For instance…
Thinking I must scratch sound to hear sound.
Not knowing, like this, of course there’d be only
That scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch…
Around me like hellrats…
For instance, hurling my eyes at vision, only
That they should slam against something like stonewall.
(And the crash, unscratched, unheard.)
Imagine how gravity would throw your skeleton
(Nest of forest twigs-become-tooth-pick birdcage)
Ten, twenty thirty stories
Meeting earth’s immovable bone—
That cold you’d feel crack your headrock—
That concrete is my vision.
Yes, finish off the senses, finish off the lines.
If you put your life here, in this poem’s lonely glass,
It will take its shape.
For isn’t that the oldest metaphor? Life—water?
Yes, water with yourself these lines.
My brain needs to rinse me clean from its hands.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Swallow the things that break you apart
You know you’ve done something terrible
Like swallowing pills or drinking alone
But you can’t quite figure out
What exactly you’ve done to deserve this
And the pit of your stomach is hollow
Like the poison doesn’t fill you up
The way you thought it would
Like it’s eating away at you instead
Like everyone warned you it would
But it makes you feel warm,
And distant, and numb
Something rattles in your chest
And you think for a moment
There is some sort of bird
Caged in the space
Between your heart and lungs
That maybe you’ve poisoned it,
Maybe its wings are pinned to your ribs
Or that maybe it will never sing again
And the worst part of it is
You’re probably right.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 7:21 PM UTC
Tell me, my friend.
Have you ever looked at a caged bird?
They're quite like us,
Even though it sounds rather absurd.
The small bird is restricted,
Behind cold metel bars,
The same way that our ribs and skin,
Cage away our heart.
Maybe if you ponder the this theory
For a little bit longer,
The points of similarity
Begin to grow stronger.
Maybe you never take a chance,
Because you're terrified to fall,
If that is the case, My Dear,
Then fear would cage us all.
Maybe you're lover didn't love you back,
Or they could have cheated and lied.
You can act as tough as you want,
But you're heart is dying inside.
It's easier to hide in fear,
And pretend like things don't matter.
Because then you don't have to risk
Your heart getting shattered.
And even the most beautiful,
Or the ones with brilliant minds,
Don't always see what they are,
Because of the caged little bird inside.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Auntie took me
to Milly's place
across the parade ground
Milly let us in
and Milly said
to her daughter Elsie
show Benny
the blue budgie
Elsie looked at me
sternly and unsmiling
budgie wants to sleep
Elsie said
budgies don't sleep
in the day
Milly said
show Benny
the bird
Elsie sighed
and walked
to the other room
where a birdcage
was hooked up
to a metal stand
I saw the blue budgie
on a perch
that's the bird
Elsie said glumly
looking at me
what's it's name?
I asked
why'd you
want to know?
She said
so I can talk to it
I said
talk to a bird?
She said mockingly
boys don't talk
to birds
I studied the blue budgie
hello blue bird
I said
the budgie chirped
and flapped its wings
it's name's not blue bird
Elsie said
what's it's name then?
I said
not telling you
she said
and walked off
is it Elsie too?
I said
she turned
and gazed at me
no it's a boy bird
boy birds aren't called
girl names
she said
Milly came in the room
to fetch a couple of plates
are you talking to Billy?
She asked me
yes
I said
he chirped at me
Milly smiled
that's good
she said
Elsie glared at me
as her mother
walked back
out the room
hello Billy
I said to the budgie
the bird chirped again
Elsie stood next to me
and stared at the budgie
perhaps he likes you
she said
I don't know why
I looked at the budgie
I like you
I said quietly
Elsie stared at me
do you?
She said
I nodded
I don't know why
she added
and walked away
nor do I
my voice
uttered softly to Billy
Elsie had gone
and the bird
flapped its wings
and flew across the cage
to the other side
I did like her
I didn't lie.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Tweet from the cage I hear,
blood is the common fear.
The sound on the edge of heaven,
minutes left are seven.
Trippin', fallin' down low,
my Angel, you're too slow.
All the colors are turning one,
black is the on you'll see run...
-
In darkness I am,
glad you don't have a cam.
For 'Dark' is my chair,
so don't you dare.
Go call me super odd,
at my side is God.
-
"No reason is makes,"
your smile just fakes...
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
You don't even know how to swallow the sparrows
when you grabbed their dapper wings
did you?
You just grabbed and forced them down
and now they're struggling in your gut
wrestling to get out
and pecking up your maw.
Bet if they opened you
no one would see
a single bird
a single feather
or hear a single song
But they would feel all the hair rush out
as the wing beats just barely missed their faces
if they just
reached
out
they would catch one
but instead
they look down on you
the look down on me
and all they see is the ****** pink of trauma
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
She is dead,
Now I am free;
She had a will
And her eyes on me.
Her will had strings,
But can't you see,
I tore her strings
And I broke free...
She fought me hard,
But still she fell;
She kept me in,
While I gave her hell.
I was her nightmare
She'd never tell;
As weak she was,
She loved him well.
Her will is dead,
And so is she;
The one she protected,
Is no more free--
The one she hid,
Is now exposed;
The one she loved,
Will be disposed.
It cannot be,
She shares my stage;
She cheated death,
And turned the page--
She's alive inside,
Fighting the wars I wage;
She did not die,
She's crying in the birdcage...
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
Janice's gran said
don't let the canary
fly out the window.
I won't
Janice said.
Gran made sure
all windows and doors
were shut.
Ok you can let
the bird out now
her gran said.
I stood watching
as Janice opened
the birdcage
put her hand in
the yellow canary
jumped onto her
small finger.
She brought
the bird out
on her finger
we watched as it
fluttered its wings
and chirped loudly.
Janice lifted
her finger
level with her eyes
and spoke to it.
I said nothing
but stood there
watching.
Her gran had only
let me in
if I promised not
to teach the bird
bad language
I promised.
Who's a pretty boy then
Janice said.
The bird held its head
to one side
chirped
but said no words.
He spoke that time
when I was alone with him
and told him
a few words
and he said them
almost straight away.
I wondered if
he remembered me
and would
repeat them today.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 3:32 AM UTC
oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
history repeats itself -
you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a cunt-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
it's free; a guess is free,
your little birdcage houses no sing-along.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC