Bird Song

The disconnect.

Time, the solitary oddity.

Out of angry clouds, spat from the underbellies of roaring airships, bombs fall like candy from a pinata.

And the kids, ground forces, clamber for the treats. Pushing and shoving as they pillage the village, rape the women, throw their babies in the fire.

In the west, people stay wrapped in warm oblivion, craving cheese, eating meat, watching TV, getting fat, drinking, doing drugs. Safe and cozy. For the Time.

Time, that delicious bittersweet flow melts like ice in the summer sun. But I retch in the taste of its human fluidity. The turbulence of their wake sends a shudder through my…

What?

Virtue?

No. Virtue has fled. Insanity fills the void and burns like napalm the scars of my survival.

I have escaped myself, only to become a prisoner.

A refugee.

A stranger in the fold.

From the birds, I hear a different song.

I follow a different creed.

I am feral, living beyond the common culture, an anomaly biding Time.

Alone and fallow.

But I seed, seeing, with an undesirable gaze, the glaze of dystopia in the icy frost of humanity’s sanity. Seduced by their traditional, political, religious, patriotic zeals, The Guided see nothing. Nothing beyond the glorious propaganda they hail.

Haunting.

The pinata bursts, the candy falls.

It’s all fun and games.

But on the other side of nowhere, sunshine warms the meadows.

Birds sing a sweetened song, but their tune soon sours in the rabid conventionality.

A slaughterhouse makes its quota. Sentients tremble and die. Blood flows a merciless river and no one hears their cry. It’s good. The bacon, they say. Fuck whatever.

Lands poisoned.

Trees cut.

Rivers polluted.

But still, the birds sing as the meadows sway in colorful spring fashions.

Fashions, songs, and sway, as if all were right.

All is not right.

Cities sprawl, devastating wild spaces, giving acreage and precedence to crime-ridden infestations and the greed of corporations feeding the insufferable addiction of humanity’s unrelenting consumerism.

Among the civilized, primitivization holds no ground.

Still, in the smog of industrialization, atop a stoplight flashing an ominous red beacon, a sparrow sings a warning.

Ignored. Life goes on.

For some.

A shark losses its fins for a wedding.

A dolphin its life in The Cove,

an elephant its ivory,

a rhino its horn,

the orangutan its habitat.

Wild boars their roam, rapid fire from a helicopter. The dregs love this sort of shit-sport, they Like it. I hate it. Detest it. But I am the angry savage, the opposition to custom. They are the Children of Consensus, protected by an overburdening Authority.

Now, the birds sing a song that brings a sad song to mind.

But the worshipers sing a song of joyful praise to their imaginary God. They become rapturous, yet they possess the heart of a rapacious demon. Abominating all that does not conform.

I do not conform, I am individual. An advocate of the Damned, yes. But my individuality is my strength to keep my insanity from going sane beneath their sain.

Still, Time is a setting sun.

And still, the birds sing. But their songs send an overcast to the meadows that bare a graying shade of grandeur.

And still, there is a disconnect between what people do and what they say they desire. What they wish to create and hope to destroy, what they want to remember but cannot forget.

This disconnect, I call Dystopian Dissonance.

Now, the minutes are gone, the clock has stopped.

The moment has come, the candy’s spent.

The birds sing a somber finale,
a fading farewell, waning into the last.

The meadows, silent beneath the ash.

And Time, Time buries its past,
in the only peace you’ll never know.

18 Comments

      1. Sure have, Peter. My latest blog piece is titled ‘Sperm Control – or, how to prevent abortion’. It’s one of my feminist opinion pieces, so may feel conflicting for you. However, do read it if you feel brave enough 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

  1. Dystopian Dissonance — a droning, disemboweling disconnect. As inconceivable as it is a “normal” day, 24/7/365. Hitchcock’s “The Birds” is a nihilist film that entertains a human audience, a self-involved sadist species that claims the center and the circumference of the universe as its private insatiable craving-ground inherited from an omnipotent, omniscient, mirror-image creator that loves humans so much that he is willing to sacrifice the lives and souls of innocent sentients for the market value of a mere “mortal” soul — anything the spoiled shits with a self-presumed “immortal” soul wants to lay waste in the wild from the safety of a protective shell like a helicopter, lay waste to the “livestock” created for the endlessly procreating humans that can’t keep getting fruitful and fulsomely fecund into ever more insatiable hordes that can’t build enough slaughterhouses and death-dealing drones that drop from the sky and, at the most propitious moment, eject swirling razor-sharp blades to shred the skin and saw the bones of an infant in Yemen who was already just skin wrapped around a skeleton that would have died anyway had the merciful blades not ended her pain most mercifully and lovingly. At least she wasn’t pecked at by Hitchcockian birds that attack for no reason.

    Meanwhile, elsewhere on the same planet:

    “A shark losses its fins for a wedding.

    A dolphin its life in The Cove,

    an elephant its ivory,

    a rhino its horn,

    the orangutan its habitat.”

    God is love.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Wow. I’m not such a deep thinker, but that got to me. You’ve quite the fertile, compassionate and complex mind. I loved reading every word of that, despite the sorrow.
    Hate to be trite here, but I’ve always so loved the songs of birds, especially whippoorwills, but all of them. I don’t care for recordings of them, only their live sounds. I listen to the birds and appreciate them; it seems most people totally tune them out, too busy with all their egoistic human social crap.
    Hearing the birds has always soothed my soul. I always hope that IF my loved ones have to come back to this hell that they can be birds of the sort that most people ignore, because any prolonged attention from people holds horrible risks.
    I always think/worry about the possibility of no more bird songs and wonder if other people would even notice if they were gone. I don’t think they would.
    Once, in Pasadena, CA, at an outdoor eatery a man told me how a guy had tried to step on a friendly sparrow who was hanging around cadging snacks… he said he scared the POS away and wished he could’ve killed him. I liked that man.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for the compliment. But mine is merely a mind filled with distortions. And you’re not trite at all. I love to hear the birds, too. And if I have to come back and if I have a say in the matter, I’d come back as a Steller’s sea eagle, since they primarily inhabit the cold regions that humans avoid, and are such a loving example of strength, beauty, and grace.

      What an asshead to try and step on a sparrow. But not surprising.

      Liked by 3 people

      1. Those would be some mighty interesting distortions then.
        Beautiful birds, those sea eagles. Only problem I’d have with coming back as one is that they still eat fish. Maybe you could change that, hah. I’d prefer to come back as one of those red-crowned wild parrots who eat seeds, nuts, fruits, berries, and vegetation. Decades ago they escaped from the pet trade and those disgusting cages. They fly through the skies in huge numbers sometimes, shouting, so interestingly. I like to imagine they’re throwing down all sorts of choice insults against this species of hairless egomaniacal brutal apes who proudly label themselves wise and kind.

        Liked by 3 people

        1. I’m embarrassed to say I never thought about that, the sea eagle diet. But, don’t laugh, it might be possible, and rest assured, if I bring even the slightest trace of knowledge and instincts of this life into the next (BTW, I’ve often considered the possibility, but that’s a topic for another time), I’ll be the black sheep of sea eagles. The others will point their wings and laugh at me. Snicker behind my back. Spit and shake their frills with loathing, “Whoever heard of a sea eagle that won’t eat fish,” they’ll say. But, it will be the birth of evolution from carnivore to sea veagle. Mark my word.

          Liked by 2 people

          1. The palm-nut vulture is a mostly vegetarian eagle that could thrive totally on palm nuts because of their unique digestive system, so there you go, but it’d be a boring diet. Another problem, they often live near people and their habitats are sometimes under threat (forest destruction by, who else, the naked ape). But I don’t doubt that you could start a sea veagle revolution of nut, seed and fruit eaters. I do hope you get your wish, IF you have to serve another life term here. Here’s hoping all basically decent people and all animals get their full-fledged angel wings after this life and no more of this insane purgatory.

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