Fly to the sun, but not to its
Light, and tell me…
How many flights before you
Fall from your wax wings?
I'm only asking 'cause, well,
The thing is,
Frankly, you look a little bit
Like shit, you see.
You're still singing, mind you, but
It's not quite right, is it?
Not right in your mind,
Or your mouth, or your beak;
Like you're doing karaoke at a
Bar, drunk off your face,
Sloshed, off pitch, off-key,
Off-world, not high,
Not quite (hah!).
But you remember that night, so…
How many songs before your
Throat caves in? Songbird:
One more tune to belt.
A melting phrase, a poem or two
Before you soar out the door
like always, no room
For you, let alone somebody else.
So sing, oh so softly,
A lullaby to your wings;
A melody to make you sick, as
You imagine them wrapping
Round your neck, you prick.
You look like shit, did I mention?
Contention was never
Your strong suit,
So, wear that suit with a
Winning smile all but stitched
Into your skin.
The microphone's right there,
So come up and sing
For us all, least of all
For yourself. Throw
Stones at your doubts and
Kill two for less (what a mess!).
Just get up on stage, off-key you might be,
Off world you aren't;
Yet you still wish you weren't
(Weren't what? Feathered?).
Just give us one more before you
Off yourself, for the good times.
They exist, believe me, I'm sure.
You'll get it right next time,
Don't fret it. You're a little off pitch,
A little off-key, just a little
Off, I'm afraid.
A bit shit too, so…
How many words before
You run out?
Leave the audience bereft
Of yourself. Take a step.
You didn't dazzle, hardly shone;
Couldn't, fizzled,
Burnt up like dawn
In the dimness at the edge.
That light's just a fact of the stage.
Now, a window's ledge
Creaks, cold beneath your feet.
Take a step. But not here:
You could fly.
A bridge perhaps (that's poetic as shit!);
Not your first choice,
A bit dramatic, too cold, but if you're into
Verse and want to talk about flow…
No. Doesn't fit, just like
The rest of the show: That voice,
The hair, the clothes,
The posture,
The brain,
The beak,
The wings,
The claws,
Deformed, and too small, or
Too big, in fact;
Too big for your boots, too
Creased for your bones. They'd snap
On impact, you'd find, fractured,
Hollow, in fact;
Shattered like glass (hah!), dropped, and
Sat on your ass again,
Fall hard, and you dropped
The ball again, you did,
Dropped like a sack of shit in the
Sea; voice cracked, head smacked,
Concrete splat, spattered wall
With egg-shell flecks of bloody
Pulp and egg yolk broken up by the
Fall and revealing the sunset
Coloured sound of: Screaming,
Singing, falling, slumping
In their seats and yawning,
Clipping, cursing, getting on
With all the slipping, screaming,
Squawking, falling, bawling, always
Beaming, sunbeams crawling
Up your legs ‘til you can't
Jump ‘cause you're stuck
In the muck of it all.
And?
Spot-lit in your ill-fitting hands:
Bird shit.
No crowd in sight, the voice
Of the lights, headlights now,
Takes your side as the
Road widens out, swerves
To the left; as we stand,
Hand-in-hand, and imagine it,
And hum to ourselves
To ask
What comes next?