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?!
