Conversation with a Crow

The view from the moutain oversees the valley stretching out below. A great blue stream running into a sea of green. The path I took was long, my feet have blisters but it was worth this view. The air feels cleared, my lungs feel stronger. Even the clouds here seem pleased to see me. It’s from here I can let my thoughts run wild, with every ragged breath I take, every forced step I make to climb higher and higher, my thoughts become less pained.

There is a bird that has joined me here in my sacred place. A crow without friends or family. I think we could understand eachother so long as he doesn’t fly away from me. Birds are nervous, untrusting creatures. Understandably. Humans are just as nervous and more untrusting. But being larger gives us confidence.

The crow cocks his head sideways to check my advances, calculating inside that pea-sized brain of his. Am I a threat? Or friend? I sit within three feet of the crow on a stone and begin a conversation with it.

“Crow, are you lonely? You are all by yourself. I am lonely, I haven’t seen any of my kind for months.” “I have not seen any of my kind neither, human. Maybe we are the last of our species?” “For all we know we could be, crow.”

Becoming a Man

“I hate the way it feels.” “The way what feels, Jamie?” Asked his mother, putting her book down. “The way my limbs feel just awkwardly laying about. I just can’t rest them. Do you ever get that feeling? When everything is just uncomfortable.” “I can’t say I do Jamie, I don’t often have time to think about anything I’m feeling, I’m so busy, as you know.” “Busy with what? All you ever do is watch over me and read.” The mother sighed. “Can we not just have a conversation?” “I know exactly where this will lead Jamie, and I will most certainly not speak of it again. Now you sit there, and be a good boy.” “Mother, I am twenty tomorrow, do you not see how patronising you sound?” “But you are just a boy, Jamie, nothing more. You do nothing, you do not work, you do not study, you sit there, complaining, and you call it conversation.” “I just want someone to talk to, mother, that’s all.” “Talk to me when you’re a man, Jamie, then I may listen.”

And so, Jamie took it upon himself to learn to be a man. He put himself to work, for money he certainly did not need and know how to spend. He gave half his wages to his mother, who refused to talk. Months passed, work grew grimmer and dimmer, the money kept coming in, yet he still didn’t know what to do with it. The pile grew and grew, the sparkle of gold certainly caught the eye of some young ladies. Eventually they would come knocking, coming to teach Jamie how to spend his money. Makeup, perfume, holidays and restaurants, they came and went, until the pile diminished and they lost interest. Until one lady came knocking even though there was no pile. Jamie, enthralled, moved out immediately, shadowing the great figure of the lady who took a chance on him. She managed him, rationed to him, washed him, pleasured him, until he became a man. He hates the way it feels. But his mother talks to him now.

 

Diary of a Mass Murderer

Bullied since I entered the building

For my weirdly shaped head

I thought I was better?

The insults grind up and smash

against my tiny brain

Like a storm of jagged stones

They even throw them at me

 

My family can’t even look at me

They pass my room

Squeaking some faint noise

Shove my food on a tray and slide it

Under my door, like a prison

“Have you got a job yet?”

 

Their names stand like ghosts

Whispering around my brain

I can hear their words in my dreams

That’s right, I’m nothing, my ocean

The shampoo in my eyes

 

She left me and I felt nothing

I’ve played out the scene in my head

A thousand times before in my mind

Before we even met

I acted sad on the stage

But in actuality nothing is reacting

I just drink a glass of orange juice

 

The nitrous fills my lungs

I float higher than the balloon in front of me

 

When I come back down

My eyes break like glass

 

Lack of Communication

Hovering on top of a parade

Of tiny black ants

They lead me to the sea

But not a step further

It’s a place they can’t grasp

So they fear it

Leaving whispers in the salty air

As they head home

 

I stare out to the sea

I try to make conversation with it’s waves

But they’re too fleeting

Rising and falling

Living and dying

I don’t want to occupy too

much of their short

Lives

 

So I shout out to the ocean

Timeless

But it has no mouth

So it can’t reply even if it wanted to

I guess some things on this planet

Aren’t meant to communicate

A Million Angry Flies

A million flies blind my view

Their swarming black bodies buzz against me

I can feel their sick warmth

They are all I can hear

All I can

See

I walk

In search of an exit

The more I move

The more aggrivated they become

Their buzzing changes tone

Landing en-masse on my pasty skin

Vibrating their wings so rapidly

I begin to melt gradually

I close my eyes in absolute

Terror

 

The buzzing stops

I open my eyes

Slowly

A pure white horizon

Burnt out silver sun

I see her silhouette

 

I swear I can hear harps

Grotesque Originality

I can’t make a painting ooze with emotion

I can’t make words pour like honey into your ears

I can’t make musical notes work together in communion

But

I can watch others

I watch them love

I watch them create

I watch them live

And I copy

I copy everything they do

I steal and crop parts I like

And stick them together

Showing myself off as an original

When to be honest

I don’t think I really have a self