the sky is firm up there, thick membrane of fat keeping all the birds from flying out everywhere. the birds a-swarm within, a festering reservoir population of sickness. they box up all my stuff & donate it to good will. fucking birds. magpies, fucking magpies. harpies, too, leading the flock, lips wine coloured, breasts cupped with dirty pigeon feathers. & the birds all scream "salsa! salsa!" in these shrill high voices. play on fucking bagpipes! what an angry bunch of coloured water my head hade seltzering around in it. deadly the night reigns! & it never ends. the hatch marks criss-cross over the stars till, in dimming, they begin to sing. fuck though man, this haze is about to be shaken from my shaggy mane. my curled & tangled lemure. my scaled & kissy lamia.