Use Your Hands

Image

The first time anyone eats a stuffed owl, it’s not pretty.

Owl skin sticks to your gullet.

Clay and feathers feel like intruders in your throat.

And the copper wire… the copper wire is impossible to digest.

It scratches at your intestines.

But by the time you’re on your second, your third, fourth stuffed owl, you adapt.

You adjust.

Then, when you find yourself in The Owl Museum after midnight, you know what to do.

The Owl Museum doesn’t have knives and forks, so use your hands.

Advertisements

Stranded

chicken

Like an astronaut tumbling to Earth from his disintegrating rocket,
I crashland in your heart.
I crashland violently,
the force tearing sense and reason apart.

Dazed, I gaze around and realise I am stranded.
I am stranded in the land of chickenbones.
I am stranded in the land where the ChickenMasters roam.
I am stranded in a land that’s far from home.
I am stranded in a land that’s far from Maidstone.

A shriek. SHREIK!
From a beak.
The ChickenMasters say I’m washed and ready to eat.
The ChickenMasters talk to me about ChickenMasters for hours.
The ChickenMasters want to cook me in their trousers.
The ChickenMasters say half of me is sweet and half of me is sour.
And the ChickenMasters want to cook me in their trousers.

“Have you heard about the history of the ChickenMasters?” they scream.
And “Your world is heading for disaster,” they scream.
And “We wash our juicy chickens in the sea,” they scream.
And “Being one of our chicks is easy!” they scream.

I am stranded in the land of chickenbones.
And I am stranded in the land where the ChickenMasters roam.

AND I SAY NO!
I’m not one of their lil’ chicks.
AND I SAY NO!
Not one lil’ bit.
AND I SAY NO!
I don’t agree to their deal.
AND I SAY NO!
I won’t end up as a meal.

AND I SAY OH!
I’m stranded, I’ve crashlanded in the plains of your heart.
Now the ChickenMasters will rip my soul apart.