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The Perfect Egret and Other Complaints

A writer who likes the text to speak for itself. And likes people who speak for themselves, too.

The Perfect Egret

My friend is an egret,
Perched on my back,
Pecking at the irritations,
Of my dull, dun hide.

Between my wide horns,
He combs,
The rough tufts,
Into contented mud curls.

He is perfect, a surface
All the
Way through.
A puff of meringue.

Perched on my shoulder, he delves into
My ear, cleaning out the wax
So that, maybe, I will hear.

But when that sharp bill,
Snicks an eardrum,
The vivid colours leak out --
The "what I ams".

Stained by the brightness,
He takes to the air.,
A full spectrum,
Of outrage.

Perfect egrets tell you to be
What you are,
Until you are.

I am thinking of suing you for copyright violation.
You took some of my best ideas before I was even born
And you write such rigorous verse!

It is a crime.

A rich mans lawyer would have your fingers in irons
Before you could protest too much.

But I am poor, so will tramp along behind.
And hum your tunes.

The God of Surprise

Knowing that there is a future
Means I must know where I am going
And if I am not going,
I must fall.

Is this a universal tyranny?
Are there beings who do not live
In the double delirium?
That unbelieve that they are
Here and also somewhere else
And everything is changed?

Love me, stasis,
And I will build you an altar.
We will worship the God of Surprise.

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