A Dead Bird is a Dead Thought

Your blood grows old in you; everything around you becomes weak—the earth rotated backward for a moment, out of confusion. How you wanted to find a way out of this world—how Saturn seemed so much more luscious than green earth—

Unable to fly, you died from a lack of flight.

All Matter is Suspect Thought

And deep, way deep, into the night, the walls began to exclaim: Save us, save us, we don’t want to be here anymore.

He left his room immediately and in a state of absolute Euphoria, he hung himself under heavy moonlight because he couldn’t bear to lose one iota of his Joy.

Bone Gatherer’s Blues

She had collected over 1,000 skulls of birds she had destroyed and boiled in bleach. Piles of little heads were stacked neatly all over her ramshackle cottage. She couldn’t remember how she came to such deeds but it was clear even to her that it had become an addiction.

But one morning, pallor spread across her whole body and she wanted to die. She thought, I have spent all this time killing and boiling and it has come to naught. I could have had a normal life; husband, child, dog, house, car. I have wasted my life on a mystical pursuit that I thought would bring me enlightenment, instead it has only bored me—the bones mean nothing

Suddenly, while she was seriously considering killing herself, a Peregrine Falcon flew into sight and landed on the cottage’s roof. With a semi-malicious grin, she took up her bow and arrow and fired into the new sacrifice...

The Angry Poem

I know a poem so mean he wouldn’t let himself be written. But I can be as mean as the angriest poem, so I wrote him anyway, in spite of himself.

As you can see, he had his reasons for not wanting to be written, he has a pretty good reason for being mean.













Copyright � 2005 BlazeVOX.org