207166_5432740873_3892_n_zps3dd13a90by David Bryant02 Nov 2013

They come to you in the middle of the
night, fly through the open
sash window like mis-fired
darts from the street corner pub,
scuffle and scrape beaks and
claws across skirting boards like
finger bones on wood.

They murmur their
demands in voices like a
choir of schoolgirls
humming the national anthem
slowly, out of tune
with each other, plead with
trembling beaks like
tweezers delicately gripping at
the splinter of a truth.

They bother like all beasts
bother, climb to kick at the
ghosted screenburn of
bad old ideas, tug the
sheets in the compass
direction of your last lover,
morbidly mutter the
name your parents would
have called you had you
been deemed worthy of it.

They stole your instinct
at birth, and are now
acting on it, indefinitely,
reaching for a conclusion
you have been denied.