Birdbrain

Mr Smith you may fist and fidget
with that wire running up your spine,
may shuffle stacks of virgin A4 off out
the window 40 floors to the paving slabs,
white right justified copy flown from tray
in out pending wait something help me
to the storm of paper feathers falling
like the snatchings of a fat cat homicide,
and you one plump old plucked pidgeon.

You may cradle that balding egg you
would like to call a human being's head,
run your fingers over every little line
and hope your potato sack skin don't slip
to show the ham fisted you hid under it.

You could stick paper clips through the septum
rectum colon guts acid tube talker teeth
or swallow coins ball bearings tabs files
and digest the substance of your adult life,
leave the remainder steaming in a public lav
as a memento of the grinding grab grab grab
babble babel babe brothel brother ba-backstab.

Every memo to you is Qu'ran Torah Sutra
and you keep them all filed tight together.
You'll never shake ghot, never lay egg
on the doghter of gohd on golden sand,
or break with the whore's whore, the big man.

Those wire taps you tried to pluck out
were veins, the steel plate in your skull
was dehydration, and your mother never
stole from you. There's no poison seeping
to your conscience, no system of taxation
has the answer, Barney was just a dinosaur,
the scalpel in your hand will go in there
but busting up organs won't bring her back.

Mr Smith you've got me really frightened,
I've got to know is this the only road
for the enlightened man? We can split
the atom, the difference, hairs, our skulls,
but oh god if oh it god comes to this,
Mr Smith's short cut to everlasting bliss,
a rusted blade blunt and brown shoved in
to rupture Smith inside off to the rapture
while outside Smith is twitching, foaming
spit and blood and messing up the desk,
then why continue with a tired charade?
Smith you'll bail you shit you coward
I know how cold and old and tired
you have to be to take that leap you
Smith no Smith shit stop Smith ah no!

Flaked, didn't you, nancy boy, scared child.
The world needs your rheumy eyes more
than you know, your pasty brain's a grace
to the grey world, grey grace, grey love.
Your pidgeon chest is virgin white for now.