ESSENCE 5

Well, the bird, bird, bird
the bird is the word

the poet rests
from his quill have spilt word bunches
delicate like flower petals
you remember petals

well don't you know about the word? 

all dervishes word wallowers and madmen
seem obsessed with flying creatures
they find it easy to become cormorants
flying low over Solents of sustenance

well everybody thought you knew about the bird

now it's time for a dance
Parliament will play tricks with my feet
without leaving the ground 
I will fly

how do you know that every bird that cuts the airy way
is not..........

bards of old would spend days staring at the sky
insects and larvae would often crawl out of their wounds
their memories would become tarred and feathered wastelands
hunters would fix them in their sights
but sadly or gladly or both
there would be no fun
if there were no danger