A LIFE IN THE ARTS
Holding a grudge,
a palmed pigeon,
head thumbed down under wing
but breast open
two thumbs through feathers thrust
in and under ribcage just like splitting a crab and you lay it out on the table.
Guts sigh on the altar;
sigh steam jarred in bottles, sold as souls
to tourists and bird-watchers. Kings
ask you to let little lungs sing
ask you to sift truth from bile,
aubergine honesty from the very ducts of the thing.
just a solid sense of self.
Rum-drunk at your desk all day,
finger picking through bird plop,
telling everyone else what to do with their lives.