Monday, May 14

The Ouroboros Project #2 - The Plumage

{poem a day 2 continues with an ode to New Zealand}

After Atlas shrugged he did twelve or so squat thrusts, leaving the world in quite a state, water sloshing over the edges of oblivion, a million species swept under his doormat; someone will clean that up later, brush and chisel at the ready -  mortar and pestle abound.

One landmass in particular, a linear archipelago, was left head and shoulders confused, topsy-turvy some would say. Sunk, submerged, raised, while the birds fly less and less. Less and less and the mammals sprout leathery wings and launch scent-ward into the sky seeking its flowering devil. It’s a land the shape of two massive wings, which ironically, the birds lost after so much walking too and fro, hidden from the god-like form above, it being so swift, ready, scythe-like beak ready to devour the morsel-like pinioned beasties of below below below-ward.

And then the prints of princes, the land fell silent the pinions submit and float ground-ward slowly slowly, defying gravity. “Why should we listen to you.” “Because your blood now colours your plumage, have you not seen?” And so the immortal godly brothers too fell from the invisible blockage into the whirlpool of Atlas’ sink and with the pulling of the plug, round we go, round we go, feathers and all, once more into the black abyss.

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