Friday, April 6, 2007

Do-Da, Do-Da

In those days I slept with my head in a birdcage. It was in the middle of an abandoned pet store. There was always some cat or viper trying to pick my brain, but I had hung myself far enough above the bloodstained floor to feel safe. I was a friend of the carpet beetle who made the controversial statement that they were more populous than god. As for the jazz-playing mongrels howling in the windows, their pawing didn’t bother me so much as the fleas, who immediately moved into my fright wig. I had to reach out and pull the rope even higher, which screwed up the canary’s view of the setting sun. My legs, of course, just grew longer, and a parrot sang me the blues. Ah, those were the days of discovery. Now I stand lashed in the playground where children swing from my crotch. I still have the bird shit halo, which I wear on walks.

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