The Birds of Rape

The owl with the yellow eyes sits
on the windowsill, predatory glances,
warning stares – night-time is the time
to feed. The wisdom, the horror, the sickness,
the silent bird surveys the scene – judgement
and contempt seep from talon and beak.
The guardian sits in feather and stone,
exploiting weakness, and the love
that wings do not deserve.

I swallow the hatred and the narcissistic
self-destruction, surrounded by people
far too beautiful for me. And the yellow eyes
I’ve grown to hate encircle me and scare away
the friends that I don’t deserve to have.
The sanctuary dreams are plagued by
insomnia and disbelief – this should
be a time to shine…

The owl with the yellow eyes has been
replaced by a ghostly magpie, perched
on the windowsill, echoing the haunting
sounds of the past and a future hindered.
The ghostly magpie watches over the
bedroom murder-scene, the bed-sheets
entrap me and shield me from love and
companionship. The echoes of songs fade –
this is cinematic and in my head.

Walked away from the bed stained with
sex and depression – the cracks in the mattress
lead towards the sinful spot. The bed has
been replaced, but the cracks still form
inside my imagination. The magpie has gone,
long since exorcised from the figurative windowsill,
but the feathers encircle my mind and cloud
my senses. And a life in words comes to a sudden
and abrupt end…