Mister, You’re Sittin’ On A Chicken

walk backwards
jaws open wide
winding cuckoo!
colonial ululas –
up, up, up.

an eye that opens
in amethyst skies:
a sword stuck
through the oracle

three blind mice
another trumpet
two timpanis
three itchy

delphic temples
arise, churning
roots, fallen fruits
for Hera’s
afraid of Zeus

but hear the
jackals howl
orphaned insolent;
maurauders raid
the sack of gold –

cry, do nothing but cry!

all this for naught
the sky a dark crimson field –
attack, defend!
what does it matter
in the end?

crawl back through
broken windows;
rewind the musty tape,
take up rusty arms –
do it all over again

(Trying some automatic writing, I’m not sure if it worked out…?)

© Zelda Reville

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