Of terrifying loudness, the bluebirds of happiness are, in reality, the white doves of mischief. From their perches, these feathered brains are pure flights of aggravated motion. Only the clouds can keep them down.
The blackbird of pushiness flees the scene, a rainbow pebble trapped in its beak. The glass it leaves behind will brim over forever.
Yesterday, along the path – the perch – of doom, I crawled carefully to what, at first sight, appeared to be an enormous round mirror. Which later, upon closer inspection, turned out to be an enormous round mirror. My tiny face in it, looking back, all pockmarked and scaly. And next to the enormous round mirror, one of those cuttlefish bones.
The enormous round mirror, when viewed from the other side of the room (when viewed through the wires of cage, the mist of cigarette smoke, the blaze from the telly, the light through the window, past the shadows of the mourners), was a mere ten pence piece circle of shimmering silver.
And Florence Varsity was dead. So who then, asked Sylvia, will look after that little tweeter of hers, that poor little Joey, now that she’s gone? At which mention all eyes turned to see Joey, at the bottom of the cage, his throat open from here to there. The blood-soaked newspaper and its still discernible headline: Callaghan tells firemen to fuck themselves.
Such are the winds of ill-blown flight. Right?