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    submitted 14 August 2005 @ 16:17
    edited 07 December 2005 @ 11:25

Parrot Curse

Written by Jack Morris
Rating: Very Good (4) (4 rating, 1 ratings)

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I stand upon this stage like a parrot with eyes glued to page.

I see legions of truffles dancing a nervosa shuffle,
mushrooms unpicked and sought by pigs,

I see uncomfortable chair ballet swingers,
twitching their bodily mass from one side to the other.

Exorcist head spinners looking for that commonality of expression.

I wonder if others feel as I do,
if it's all normal,
and my disguise in place...

I see that surge of better then you eyes brimming with guilt,
of fidgety nerves with that need to run,
to hide in shadows and corners.

Like a 3 year old toddler with hands covered in chocalate.

Have you been raiding the cookie jar,
the source of that sweet tender melt in the mouth.

Have my eyes been filling with ego...
demonic office buildings herded by high-rise treant banks,
am I a shoulder rider like Meridoc.

Do I still dream of suburban home, suburban office life in suit and tie,
pledging loyalty to some incompentent boss that does not have the sense to fire me.

Am I walking some obesity of arrogance on a path of self defense,
giving in to that push and pull of fear,
so that no one will want to get to know me.

Am I stagnant in self bound chains of comfortable jingles,
lip locked in deprivity with pain known so well.

When this is over will I open a pack of stale ciggaretes,
moisten the end with fearfull saliva,
click that zippo open,
and shorten my life by another hour.

Will I avert my parrot gaze to the ash tray,
adrenaline jungle fire still clogging my thin veins.

Does fear create a looping diagram,
like that snake chasing it's own tail,
does anyone realize that while chasing one's own demons,
that they can't see what else is goin on,
that they are centered only upon the darkness of their own shadow,
coiled up to spring like a cobra in anger.

I see myself in triplicate,
forming words out of parrot tounge,
echos of syllables bouncing off this overly large beak.

I am weighed down with acme safes,
safeguards that crook my gaze always downwards.

I fear the egotistcal mountain as much as I fear it's lacking,
paddling down some crocodile river,
filled with the carcasses of mutilated hippos.

and it's on this river I see the examples of how others have fared on this path,
this glorified road that could lead to some unforsee-able paradise,
yet now I see no glimmering shining stones,
to lead me like dorothy to oz.

this path is river,
a flow of purgatory just waiting for the floodgates to open,
the dam that must be sought with Paul Bunyans hammer or babes hoof,
they tell me, you just have to wait,
to work with bloody stub like fingers,
until it all explodes.

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