Rusty Bird

Rusty bird,
Coarse hinges and feathers well tarnished,
He adds some oil and
Resumes flight.

This is the life of Rusty bird.
Fly, Fly until wings become too weighted
with turbulent conversations and
one too many misdeeds, Repair the latest drawbacks, and
Continue flying.

He knows not which way to go, but he needs not know,
for underneath that oil-drenched heart of his,
he knows that forwards is the most important direction.

Sometimes, Rusty bird takes longer pitstops than usual.
Sometimes, Rusty bird doesn't fly for a very long time.
Sometimes,
              Rusty bird does not want to keep flying.

In these stagnant periods, Rusty bird's wings are heavier that he can bear,
and bare are the stems of his feathers, wearily slicing through the air,
barely able to lift his pitiful, discoloured mass.

In these moments of pause, Rusty bird contemplate his purpose.
Will there ever be a destination? Must Rusty bird live his life, constantly
scraping off the ever-growing abundance of rust on his little body? What if Rusty bird
stopped doing so? What would happen then?

And after days, sometimes weeks, - and on several occasions - years, when Rusty bird finds an undisturbed shoe box and shuts his metal eyes one last time,
he reminisces about flying.

The liberation of soaring, the empowerment that came with each beat of his wings, the beauty of flying forwards into a new unknown...

This newfound energy pulsates through his crumbling frame.

He pours oil over his corroded heart, his weighted wings, and his bare feathers,
and as it seeps through the cracks and flayed layers,
Rusty bird flies again.

Vice of a Savage Boy

Enveloped in virtue
and an illusion of order,
it sits unmoving - but alert-, and hunched over,
ready to smother his facade.

Cracking its neck like the hands on a clock,
in fading patience, its clammy palms
clench matted red hair slicked in
oil of berserk.

Kill the pig.

Crouching, crawling, lurking tiger,
unmoving, save for shifting blue eyes.
It too shifts its sunken eyes,
but its boney body twitches violently
with bloodlust.

Cut her throat.

Gleeful and seething with
sadistic brutality.
It curls its branch fingers into tight fists
and thrusts downwards at the pig's throat,
at the last of his facade.

Spill her blood.

Cackling now, it dances
around the bonfire of primeval desires.
Clammy hands now drenched in swine blood,
he succumbs to savagery.

"Sensations of Savagery" (Found Poem from William Golding's Lord of the Flies, chapters 1-3)

Salt water on his lips,

Green bath of heat
Greasy decaying coco-nuts
with plums, fruit and saplings
Soil, palm trees, his blood through the air

Drawn first by dark green, warmer than blood.

The heat is fierce, sweating and gasping.

The pain of peeling sunburn over flush pink flesh.

Reassurance dripping from faces onto,

the cold, criss-cross pattern of dried palm trees.

Every so many sweets, pounds and pounds and pounds.
And now, gorging fruit in the forest;
The promise of meat, talking only about pig pig pig.
Ripe fruit. Hunt, hunted. Thirst, fresh water.
An unsatisfying meal, all are fed up.

The blow of laughter diminished
Giggles scattered
Silent.
Muttered, gasped fearfully
Storm of tumult arose.

So much open forest,
Darkness under the trees,
A glimpse of the spread sea.
The water was a thin bow-stave, endless.
We may stay here til we die.