The birds bother me because I can’t see
them, their small noises. A joke on twitter
is going around that when we hear their
singing, say beautiful, those birds are only
trying to fuck. What an urge, wanting things,
to stay alive, to keep being alive, to make
something out of ourselves: the birds smaller
versions of birds and us, well, just
a whole version. Fuck those birds and their chirp-
ing will to live. They bother me because I can’t see
them but I can’t tune them out. The longer
I sit here the louder the
louder the birds get the loud-
er the birds get sitting sitting still.
And I’m so angry again at nothing.
And it’s not the birds I’m mad at.
You know, you know, you know.
I want to make something out of ourself.
I want to make something out of nothing,
piece ourself together broken egg
shell. Where’s the snake? Eat
the yolk. If we find those birds their nest
you’ll eat the yolk. Crack each egg
smaller versions of birds smaller versions
of birds. What an urge, destruction.
Where does any urge come from?
Living, creating, being alone, sitting,
hillsides, the water. Where do the birds
come from? Breaking breaking shells eat-
ing birds piec ing together wondering
where did the bird go where did the bird
go and when did they stop making their sounds?
It is good to not see them, then. I’ll just
keep sitting and being bothered. Listening.
Being present. Oh, in the tree there, the sun hit
them. A blue one looks me in the eye to ask
Isn’t it a beautiful day? and Wanna fuck, wan-
na fuck, wanna fuck? I stare at the point of his beak
and answer, No, blue bird. No, I don’t but thank you
for seeing me. And yes, what a beautiful day.
This poem was included in my book "I want you to feel ugly, too," which can be read on issuu.
About the Creator
Hi! I'm a queer multimodal artist writing love poems in Seattle, one half of the art and poetry collective Eat Yr Manhood, and head curator of Stone Pacific Zine. Work in The Rumpus, Occulum, Peach Mag, dream boy book club, and others. :P