In the still of the night...

Just some linking scenes of some birds, an existential crisis and danger. What more could you want?

two little birds by the magazines, 

dark eyes and swivelling breaths, 

pecked at each word and drank the essence of man. 

red shoes and thin waists, 

heels of torture unable to conceive an alarm, 

drying rain and perfume intermixed in a sad café, 

and the paper stand held the two birds who watched in the night, 

pecking in fervour under the shade of a puckering tin singer. 

honey smiles and teeth rotted souls are fine by me, 

as long as the bruises are cleaned up by sunlight, 

hidden beneath the powders of carriage.

 

a man can’t be satisfied, 

when his heart searches for an answer, 

he’ll look, 

he’ll find more questions, 

and fall down into the boiling ground. 

it’ll cover him up and pour him into the heated oven, 

and bake him along with the fishes in the sea and into the flesh of man. 

oh, he believes… 

he believes now, 

that he does not believe... 

that he does not believe in his belief; 

so forgive him harsh one, 

that he cannot go down to the river and bring out the calling, 

because you are gone and have left him as someone else. 

but he’ll wait for you, 

in his heart, 

where the waves crash and slip out each spark of wonder, 

dripping in life, 

martyred for bravery, 

masked in synchronised infidelity. 

he wants you for himself, 

but you’re gone and left him for someone else. 

the child dreaming about a mile away, 

window sills beckoned to its demons, 

sufficed to the hullabaloo; 

the snores and the sirens and the chorus of pounding water. 

whistles of the wind, 

wash and wash and swish and swim, 

up and over the bridges of mortality, 

within the paper boundaries that held the sensations of it all. 

and the two birds ask, 

peck and eat, 

drink up the sleepiness of it all, 

tiresome and hungry. 

who can say they have not, but the two sailors on the night stand? 

the lady that sacrificed her visions, 

bathed in her butchered dreams, 

set it all afire and dreaded the awakening moment, 

when she should breathe once more and feel no drop of fear at all. 

still, still, still… 

be still, 

for the beldam will hear you, 

your breath and your warmth, 

but most of all your promises, 

only covert in her despair and in search of  a meal. 

and she’ll want to spend it making love to you. 

be fooled if you want, 

but what other options do you have? 

in between her cherry lips, 

her words will caress your emptiness with an eager attempt, 

but it’s okay, 

you still have a choice. 

she’ll watch you, 

put her time on you, 

into you, 

and you’ll scream in pleasuring agony while your words defy you, 

because then it will be too late, 

and she’ll have you underneath her claws, 

pink in colour and mendacious in nature. 

but you’ll still have a choice... 

or that’s what she’ll have you believe, 

but oh, 

here belief comes again… 

who are you? 

be sure to prepare your funeral in your head, 

there won’t be a body to descend back to the mother after she’s done with you. 

just don’t say they never warned ya, 

naïve one… 

honey bun, 

sweet sweet lollypop; 

rolling yourself in the goodness makes you only more delicious to the noses of the hungry, 

deliciously pompous and proud. 

bring up your knives and forks and get rid of yourself before she can. 

still, still, still... 

in the still of the night.

Author's Note

Create your own meaning for it.

Reviews

[Christoph]

For me it's pretty aggressive, and I suppose I'm into that because I was into this. There are specific lines I think are pretty killer, then I get lost a bit, then I decide that it's all about me and that I should either call or kill my mother. I can't pick and I blame you, so you must have done something right here.

[Empty Cup]

I must admit, it was quite a shock for me to actually see a comment here.
But I thank you. I guess I shall receive that as sweetly as possible, so I shall pass it on to Tom Waits, his inspiration was very much handy for this one.
Though I must say, do what makes you fly.

[Christoph]

I'm pretty sure now that you are asking me to kill Tom Waits.

[Empty Cup]

If it will make you fly, I'll say go for it dear man!