Wednesday, January 13, 2016
On top - a poem
Tilley was looking at a bird.
He was jealous of birds.
After six leg breaks, two snapped cruciate knee ligaments, three rotted out fibulas (one of the replacements rotted too), and worst of all one nasty ingrown toenail, all over the course of four painful years, the thought of flying seemed like a dream.
Also he was jealous of their feathers, they reminded him of tickling, tee he he.
But the flying was the real desire.
A wish he'd wished for at every wishing well he'd seen since before he even noticed the developing second rot.
As he looked at this bird.
With his desire bubbling like a wishing well being boiled from a volcano below it (ultimately melting all those coins, what a waste. Who the hell digs a wishing well without first getting a full geological study done?).
This wish miraculously came true.
He could suddenly fly like an eagle, that had eaten an angel, that had been conceived in the jet-stream of bee.
'Wow, ace' he thought as he soured over a majestic river leading to a beautiful deserted beach, 'this is going to make it easier to get to the Cathedral every afternoon to tell God off for never, ever, ever, EVER letting anything good happen to me, WAY easier' he thought.
'Suck on that God, you cunt!' He screamed as he watched a pod of orcas swim by a previously undiscovered reef which was so vibrant it made the Great Barrier look like squished cockroach.
Meanwhile the wife of the dead guy who'd provided him with two fresh, and one flawless, fibulas sat at home forlorn while STILL awaiting her thank-you card.
She was soon giggling though.
Her new beau was ticking her with a feather.
He'd just plucked it from her pet bird which had just died.
But she didn't know that yet, so our ending remains cheerful.
Cheerful as a bee sitting proud on-top a bronzed eagle sculpted from melted coins, with a smile on its face, as it watches his bee mate sucking pollen from flowers, totally unaware that two angels are fornicating in its wake.