Birds of Pride

Genre: speculative probably.

[Re write: Stream of Consciousness POV: Pitbull, Winter Sun, Trailer, No edits as per usual. It’s still finals week. But, I finished it last night. ]

Rust crests against the trailer, sparks with fumes. Metal on the tongue. The sun pikes up from the mountain-less, hill-less wasteland side of these flats. Its piercing thought penetrates my insides as I imagine thousands of birds burst from my chest cavity out into this hell hole. Wings flap, anxiety trodden belief. Black bean eyes, their fruit crushed underneath the weight of it all. A god in its making, the sun lives unashamedly. Light curls up my blankets and shines color over my limbs. Its steady quiet, my loneliness, a weightless feat. Green faded corduroy embraces my body, the dust and filth clings to the air. Coffee black. Together, the outside and I watches that fuckin’ behemoth rise from the gates and burn stamps into our eyes. Sunglasses on tilted to the side, the sun is ungrateful and unyielding to my plight.

Out here in the wilderness, vespers live inside your skin sludge, lizardy triflin’ things. Cold blood type. I beckon you to think, float and disappear beneath it. Thirst feels clinical. Day by day, soaked in the excess spongin’ the gods juices for retribution. Skin layers with the grime, its body lotion, your meat, a bright fish. Drip by drip, twisted for its exquisite treatment, in the corridors out here, the journey marks its signature. Pieces of you wonder if age comes with the way of the old. Violent in its offenses, the formations play as life terminates and rebirths. They're there and they're gone, just like you.

Not 'nother person for miles. Not 'nother person who knows your name. We're nameless. Something haunted that exists between the lines.

Coffee grains make their beds and lie in the sockets of your gums. Rot heals you different, a season that starts full before it begins to ferment, changin’ the direction of your life. Cheek to cheek, dormant of each other in tandem. The lone hatchet rests on your shoulder, a weight with conviction. A wormhole of warm light shoots across tree branches twiddlin’ with every rivet and burnt scar, flesh of lobbed off limbs, its time thinnin' out. One tree, no more than four feet. Winter comes like tragedies of short sleeves sewn through. Winter's crisp drink, begs you to come back to square one. Chapped lips, virgin of commons. Tree's legs become fuel. An unspoken understandin’ their invisible mouths offer to me. Bread buttered, whatta lifeline.

My trailer barely canvassed the plot, a half, a partial thunk it, somebody else's trash, somebody else's future. Dregs heaped to the side, wheels coiled itself, its bad doors, its wrong electricity, its pipin made dicey. Left it in the field. No luxury. No Gods. Inheritance for nature, for ‘nothers, for drifters like me. Built that wood fire oven. Built the walls stronger where others didn't burrow and share the space. Didn't want to eat each other. Hung plants, arches for no one. Tunnels enclosed around my eyes. Borderlines exist for us, those on the run. My name evades letters its hallucination an error never told. By day we hunt, by night we fester.

Classics sit on the bedside, their withered spines of word, neglected to pleasure regrets. Speak the worlds into song. We retreat into its moment when the moon screams at the helm of our heads. Barely much of mine to stay intact. Nobody listens to drownin’ noise, we dug in the wolf, crucifixion arse backwards, damned to be undone. Hope for instruction, hope for sleep, for some release.

People's irises are detached from the flesh. Haven't seen a damn person in years. Drifted by doorsteps to kings of porches, my feet have become property of the shadows. We live in the moment of companionship, the others no one speaks of, dreams of, tastes. Sometimes myths make the most sense of it. They can dribble all that eerie talk, a barter with a penchant for instant coffee. One nameless, the other. You wonder what they can't, you wonder what they won't, their have nots and kindle me curious talks. Claws at the back of your neck as you sip, hairs all spread out, instant coffee grains all up in your cheek beds. Bird feathers leave a mess where they used to lay. Tins of coffee. No notes. No pleasantries. Just rested. In the middle of door steps. Askin’ to be taken. Askin’ for homes in cupbards far away. Die alone as a messenger, food for the trees.

***

Certain pups whine the way babies cry, this dog is the king of babes. Sickle shaped grin, chirps. Marquis launches from the ground floor into my lap throwin' all the tree legs. The sun is out, not for long, and I hear their whining for attention, to be held. This child belongs to no one, lives to breathe, and to die feral. Life is simple and careless when all you can do is smile. Cool by nature, he still reaches the caretaker in me. Keeps the scales leveled. Balanced as a shipwreck's bow.

Found the babe abandoned by the creek not too far from the plot, thought it was a corpse. Life is butta death sentence if it screws you the wrong way. Huffs are abandoned of thought, the lungs move into billowy hills, rib cages are sharp protruded things. A body outcasted, limp of light. Split my lip to say the damn words. We shivered underneath the trees, and the cruelty of the sun. Bullet holes and crumbled paper, the fire burned in our eyes innocent of scrutiny.

He let me touch him, his scruff of dirty muddy fur. Fingers wiggled inside the flesh and bones, as if he could conceive of reasons why. His eyes were letting go, submission to eternity. Inside, a clean shot. Organs in place, as they were as they've always been. We're on the mend, my little babe.

Dog was his first name. Didn't think he would have stayed as long as he had. By the water I cleaned the filth from his body. Something had to give. Knew that if I left him, eternity was imminent, a forced scale. Sang to him the old world songs of ancestry language, almost forgotten. Made new words for things we've never heard. It gave the tongue power.

Outside in the wilderness, everything has to feed. Those abandoned cross over the line to the other side. Brutality has not yielded hunger for its elimination. Maggots, rodents, scavenger carrions, they all play a role on the chess board. Us, on the run have to be careful not to slip too deep one way, ‘cause south is never not too far.

After enough shitting and whining the chirps came, a trill on the tongue. Marquis, got his name and released himself from dog to the wild ruin of his next life. Pits are little babe jokesters. They're zealous fools with hearts in their eyes large enough to swallow you snakeside whole. Despite growin’ wrong the anger must've chilled, other than the hunts he got all the ire out of his system. Cool as a clam, had no other doubts of his little babe life.

I’d often find myself in the drought of his eyes. Grey perilous blue, as if you could pluck pits of flush into edges and set them off. Freckles that ripple out instead of all consuming inside. His eyes told me a story of invention to become more than what you are, I’d hang there and listen.

“And when the world comes to a halt, we got to promise each other that when they come for our foxy bones, they'll feast again. We'll be watching them watch us. Won't we, my little babe? For my sake, I hope you survive whatever hell I'm after.”

Marquis soft ears, velvet tuffs slipped through the crevice of my fingers. Up and down, and he listens carefully to my tongue, as if he knows the future is never what we want it to be. It is just what comes without questions. It's this sort of elusive thing. A collaboration of the unknown. People can only do you right when they got the map. See the map isn't a manual. It's a picture book. It says things by creations. You can feel it. When you see them. Sometimes people never get maps. They're simple folks with tiny lines, ripped off partial and it leads to nowhere. They get scared of the fog. Never to venture far from home. Memories and names disappear like bitter tea steeped too wet.

***

I felt the last bit o' coffee slide down the barrel of my throat, rugged ridges that didn't make no sense. Excess laid on thick. Char turnin’ ground grey in my belly. Need it for that extra kick in the ass to get me goin’ a little stronger. With enough effort I set that mother fucker mug down, ‘cause it’s heavier than what lives inside of it.

You see I've been on the run long, and longer than my ancestry ought to go. They're lookin’ real hard to find me, but I'm way out in bumfuck nowhere. A nameless other who spares her time. Live a crone, die one underneath the tree legs on this makeshift patio. They said I wasn't gonna survive, show’d them. I think if they saw this place, they wouldn't know what to think of it. Probably would have heard the rumors about the shadows. My legend of porches. They'd be real stock and barrel about it.

This Christmas mug was part of the legend, see. Faded big bright red letters, typewriter made cursive. All those golden bells, and mistle and the smells of unearthly warmth. It was my third year, bird hunting. Got a few fatties. Only the homes closest to the trail get their wins. They must've suspected my arrival. I could feel them knowin’ my presence through the walls and by the slip of their curtains. Shadows that stay still. Bodies vibratin’ with echoes for mouths. Think this was their reach. Step on my side of civilization, the other world. A few minutes purred as they crossed the threshold. Borderline between me and we. I couldn't have them see me, had to move in the shadows. Blindfolded their eyes to what I am and the genesis of my existence. Couldn't meet them in the eye, see I am not like them. I am a drifter on the run, and couldn't even begin to explain the dimensional vortexes in the sky or why their shortened lives will never experience what it means to travel through to the otherside. They'd just be dog meat and particles. I wasn't gonna ruin their lineage for a dream.

Somewhere, I imagined deep inside the feelers of my loins, a cordial exchange. Pendulum swings for their life, and I'm enamored by their breath of fresh air. I'd have to be an illusion, a thing of shadows, ‘cause what else could they explain of my existence. My golden lamplighter eyes. Things of thought don't last long underneath twilight shine.

Ghost already gone. My inventions bemoan me to solitude. Couldn't make a fuss or implant their world. My ashes and dust would be a rumor of what things once were. ‘Cause I'm to be found, runners get tired, drifters can only sway for so long.

***

Its pheasant season, birds plump in their fat. Daylight wanderin waitin to be eaten by prey. They make the strangest noises, part of the reason they were chosen. I’d prefer them less in the morning over the gobble wild things out closer to town. I read about it in a floated newspaper. I like their taste, it's wetter than the gobbles. Marquis whines at me, ‘cause he knows it's “Bird time.” We do these hunts twice a month until the sun starts to swell longer. Other times we catch other creatures for the tins. We're careful about who or what they're gonna be. Custodians of extinction. Especially when the birds are babes. Not enough meat for a gift. Sometimes I feed em. As though they're part of a farm. They gotta understand their sacrifice. Only pluck a few from their herd. The slippery water meat holds the line most of the time.

Gotta flip up my knife to sharpen its cut. Birds last longer when they bleed less. Makes a fine jerky chew. Sweatin’ round bullets like discs that make an impact on the skin. It's a different type of hell. Sun beats you with its thumbs provokin you to shut your spleen to splinters. We bathe in the light until our skin is leather filled with cancer. A candied rot in the tooth, lips pale fruit. The behemoth’s monstrous tendrils wave in the sky. It touches you right to the core. That fucker. Love to hate it, like water swimmin in the air.

We make it to the creek, long enough to stick our faces and bodies into it raw. Ice chill nabs you of any feelin kills your inner screed to lung stone shock. I am still alive, as much I can be. Longevous than most folks. Preservin soil in the skin, part of me starts to believe that nothing can find me in this wasteland. No space shit. Marquis eyes gleam, as if they're crystallized at this moment. A fractal caved ninety degrees split side. Slow motion memories captured.

Pressin the fingers at the base of the blade, I clean it. Hadn't rusted as it should. Hell. Blades not from here. They're durable, alien of this planet. Shreds through damn near every mess.

Time defiles my head with emotions from the past. A reason to remember, a reason to forget. It taunts and baits me. Invalidates me until made irrelevant. Faces of friends bleedin from their crowns. Water slaps my leather. Ribbon tied tongue, tangled from its war. A guns scripture painted the wall before I begged, stop. Blurred paradigms pull me under water. Until I obliviate the specimens from my brain holes.

***

Bright days under harsh light, we stalk our prey. Barely came out of that spell unscathed. Shit that should have been over comes in random waves. It's better to be mud and die in this place. Every part of my bein' felt as though I owed them that every time I blessed my eyes with its jewels. We see what we want to see when lips are muted. We see what we can't forget, scars never heal, they're only words fabled.

At the archway of untouchable trees you see the birds, all around their houses of different species. Places likened to royalty unsupervised. Flush in their colors, they beckon us to their path. Flowers wicked reds in droves. If you listen to their sounds the invisible trails lead to the water, that drip isn't the same in certain vortexes of civilizations, it has its own thunder. The way a rock falls farther than you expect it to. By every plunge, it ripples through your fingers, destitute of vision. For every bug the bird doesn't feed, a slippery water meat consumes the excess. Some cycle that keeps the life out here thriving, ‘cause those people haven't come yet. The trick is in the bugs that live underneath and cover them in honey. Trap them royals, slice them and de-feather them, and roast them during a few wobbly twilights.

They always think they're smarter than they are. Alotta people make the same mistake about that part too. Lack of awareness, and you'll become lights flutterin in the darkness.

The sound of a whistle thick busted outwards into my ear tunnel. It would torpedo all damn day if I let it.

Bite my lip, and return to station. My prey.

It's a jittery feelin’ when you see somethin’ you gotta have.

Birds of pride. The richness of his meat as he strode to my trap. His feathers are noble of dirt and muck. Never phased by the noises all around. If birds could howl, they'd be banshee's wails. Half in flight, nerves leakin’ through the walls of the tree legs. Marquis locked eyes with it, drool in tow. Fingers snap, a reminder of the target. Bullseye on the nose. Marquis bolts for the neck, his mouth fuzz slippin’ into my face when the wind catches it just right. Lockjaw nabs the spine, and his eyes were plain of this world. The king was dead.

Screamin peddlin noises got louder and in the great vestal of this mountain-less hill-less world. I watched some squawks imprint the air. It seemed more verbal than daybreak chatter. Scruffin’ Marquis out of sight, I see the thing. One lone Crow with a fucked up wing. Swooped down for the bugs, but must've smashed itself mid flight. I had no idea these fuckin things lived out here. They're urban creatures of habit. This is bumfuck no place. Where's its pack? I used to count their families. All lined up with penchants of shine. ‘Cause I've been wrong before. Maybe, they live fuckin’ everywhere. Couldn't help but stare at the rotatin’ eyes of solid obsidian, ‘cause it was tellin’ me somethin’ sinister.

“There's darkness comin’ for you. Squawk.” Tongue gliding in and out of its beak. Fuck you, bird. Don't wish that evil on me.

You could snap its neck. Make it easy. Clean cut. ‘Cause if you do nothing, it won't stop all them scavengers, they don't take too kindly to strangers. Not a bit of hope, survival is savage. They'd eat the Crow and its tiny meat. Slurp the noodle soup of its core, and bones become homes for the bugs. Entire cities are made from old bones, you know. Don't imagine the Crow tastes better than a greasy prong itchy cat.

I look down at Marquis who is tellin’ me with his eyes we have two birds now. But, I shook my head, baled Crow into my coat.

“We have one bird, Marquis. Crows are hardly food.” Its dumb bird brain must have gotten stuck in the sap. Broke itself out of anxiety, or whatever bird things get. Wing bones all fucked up now. Don't know how to fix it. Never went to school for that shit. Not in space. Different things out that way.

“Taste bad. Squawk.”

Marquis tried to jump and nip it inside my damn coat. I swung my arm up as if I was commanding the sky.

“We don't kill the sufferin’, Marquis. We're bringing Crow home, where it will grow the way you did and have done.”

Marquis whined a jealous babes cry. Crow pressed into the warmth. Naked to its new mother. Dogs are greedy for affection, loyalty with conditions, and I suspect whatever lineage Marquis has is science of this world. Can't expect him to be smarter than urges. Strays gonna be who they were meant to. Marquis got the look, eyes understood his only general. He knows when he’s rubbin me the wrong way. He knows better not to push. Marquis was made a prince out here. Got real lucky, I even found him.

“We'll just see if we can save it. You know? Maybe kill it later if we have to, Marquis. I ain't no bird doctor, I ain't got no magic.”

“The darkness comes. Squawk.”

***

Tree legs yea big can be molded into other things. Thought I'd make a nest out of the behemoth in the sky, ‘cause it made sense to keep Marquis out of reach. Circles land in places where dogs can’t trot. Crow kept tellin’ me about those in the sky comin’ for me, as if one them was sent in Crow's body. Guess, I never thought too much about it beforehand. Seems like an unfair trade, but it had been decades now that I've lived this way, and I was startin’ to forget why I was even here in the first place.

Figure they wouldn't choose a Sunday suicide unless it was deemed worth the cause. I didn't mind the company though. Crow dropped off their knives and cleavers, without irony, without a miscreant heart. I saw myself in its eyes, a world serpent. I healed its inedible body without vengeance. We said not a word to each other of what that meant, if anything at all.

I barely remember anger. My fingers ripe from time. I worked from its openings and spread it with cloth and tree legs. Its one wing in unison of a wave, its flag with cold feathers. Crow kept calling every night for the others. Defeated in its small subtle body, unapparent to the world around him. Voice hoarse losing tempo to tread on. Crow’s body seemed to be some illusion from reality. It glitched during nightfall. Mechanical and the flesh. Lucid, drug filled parties lived in its mouth had started to die out.

Once bound to freedom, now compelled to its captor, his unchosen mother. I watched whatever humanity he had transform into white caps, fluctuate, dissipate, and plunder its hold to zero. Words soothed themselves to decibels, a trial of songs for children. He was more bird now than he had ever been.

I wanted to believe we belonged to each other. Without corruption of the ceiling breaking. ‘Cause I sure as hell wasn’t the only one who got fucked over from them. Our parents of the sky.

Guns roll deep in the air, tinker with the formations of the clouds. A lightshow for beggars who yearn to feel more. To be forgiven, as if it’s an option. It wants to threaten what it can’t have. God wails, their tears drown us. I want to be exhausted inside something I don't understand.

I felt the weight shift. Inertia temp in the air. Sweat touches my barren tongue. Boots sinkin’ in glassy clay. Matrixes that hug beneath the flesh as if you've never been loved long enough. Well enough. Its mystery lives inside you, some hostile environment. Holdin’ your tongue down, hoping not to choke. Fevers blend with your skin, a living virus. Waiting for your fumble in the hellscape that never ends. Undeterred, your legs slosh in the direction of their fire. They’re microscopic, but they won’t leave until you’re gone.

Storms have ways about them, you feel most alive at every second when you imagine the other side and you’re going to die. This electrifying trill, how it crawls up and down your skin sleeves makin’ a home out of holes. Left by nature, ‘cause nurture is for the devil's with tongues who lie about a better place. Mirrors with faces of the same morale, their empire for fools.

It’s steady when the world screams.

A loneliness you wouldn't beg for— hunger eats the hunt.

In the eye, there's a portal that only belongs for ‘nothers, drifters like me.