Tales of an Anarchist Pigeon

 

sitting on some rusty purposeless wire 

looking down the platforms

of Paddington’s Circle Line

the rain falling gently

and settling on the head of a sad man

who walks in circles on the platform  

as if a bird looking for stale bread

almost like we do minute after bleeding minute

unless it’s shagging or building our nests

in some dying tree or leaf and moss filled gutter

having once circled  with our drooping wings

promising food to the ones we lust after

 

on this rainy autumn evening

the rushing and hectic people 

avoid our shit landing on their heads

that can drool down their hairy chests 

or fading breasts held up by some latex or implants

these so-called masters of the universe  

who burn our homes then torture our brethren 

as they layer the earth with some grey mucus 

that hardens then cracks then crumbles 

these bloody losers who turn our trees of rest 

into dust or toxic leafless and pointless objects

 

yet this meandering hatless and sad soul

the one below circling around pointlessly

on the edge of the platform

as if understanding this mess

or knowing that something is not quite right

looks up at me as if pondering about my short life

noticing my burnt and virtually absent pigeon feet

looking up as if expecting me to fly away

with the shape and pattern of my flight

conveying some deep meaning

some connection to better times 

when he had love and I had my feet 

Michael Martinez 2019 - mmloctober@gmail.com

◄ These Fallen People 1

Deliver me from this ►

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