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I am the Birdman, clickety clack away at the story of me. Glubbing in pool of self-adoration, wet with words, the proclamations on high. Tripping over myself to cling at my words, smooping on the cement floor hugging squeaking animated blocks of grammaton egoism. All but hurt and butt hurt, wince out contrivances smelling of desperation and asking for praise; bread of the humans, manna for the weak soul.

Allay allay fears and pray. Toppy tipple scuttle fray. Little morose beetles scatter at harsh light introduction. I metamorphosize and crumble meekly weakly oh so mealy. Broad chest covering frailty, deception, squinty eyes in dewy fog of a face disappearing into the closet. Trapped with grandma’s sweaters and cedar balls. Come closer little moth, tempted to flutter close to the flame. We are all meant to burn.

I hear everyone else and I see only me. Dazed, lost in a glossy mirror portraying lies lies lies, demented little fox at his tricks again. He has me, is me, wants me. I turn turn my head rotating once and again and nothing appears, same image of the back repeating,  over and over little Dali surrealism flickering quick. Catch the head, cabbage rolls, merry go decapitation. Let them eat cake but it’s a lie.