spike up man
those spikes - you know the ones
like tiny antennae
the ones that adorn walls when broken glass is in short supply
the ones that say we hate bird shit so go away
fly fly you you ... fly
or we’ll net the municipal facades and pediments
no birds or wildlife in this city
pity
but that is the decision of the council of war
we’ve jelly-resined them tight
glistening in the shirtless sun where
the oiled club-footed station pigeons roost no more
the squashed traffic scuffles over corn are gorn for
a new dawn is born for ladies walking their doggerels
coffee taken with no scrapping of crumbs
it is so quiet that we cannot even hear a
nightingale sing on the parquet floor
shares in spikes have ballooned
what could ever prick that bubble
what could ever come home to roost
not even a single feather on the sunset of a breeze
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