i wrote this to stave my boredom whilst inside the belly of the Ikea Leviathan. So this poem has been to hell & back.
The magpies won’t exculpate us
even though we scared off all their competitors
& they alone occupy the cherry blossom
on the brink of renewal
— they’d do well for a diet of worms
though, rather than discarded noodles.
Bored, marched reluctantly to Ikea,
i consider the magpie’s greed: i feel like
i’m being dragged through a bramble hedge
: everything looks like leaves & twigs,
shelves of nest building materials; the spittle of birds
for gluing things, sold in tiny tubes; poor
verisimilitudes for sun, moon & stars.
Shoppers are wingless magpies with credit cards.