there, there, little winged, little bird

not far below is the black,

which you fleet the sky to avoid

but beneath concrete is the dirt we all hatched from,
the dirt we peeled away from,

like maggots from the smile in the wallpaper,

squirmed toward each other and formed a black dress,
or hot-air-balloon, massive and moving,

and we will return to it once we've sucked and capped off this era.

From the organic make up of our wool socks,
to the smell of my pussy last tuesday,
we're all from the same dirt,
thriiiiiiiiiiiiiive, and thirst for the same thing.

so, hey, baby, blue baby bird
do not hold back from flame
because you're weary of the fall
dance with the rest of us, flail those feathers,
clap those legs
marigold, satin, crimson, hotpink & pastel,
doing dizzy spellings of love-sonets backwards,
we're like a god damn disco,

greet the earth with your ass, not a face plant.