Monopoly with the family

Monopoly with family

The featherless fletching falls onto the muddy ground, as I shall lay upon, a stained mattress where I can not only smell but taste the brownness of the tea stains. I shall rest upon the lumps and boils on the mattress to watch the ceiling’s peculiar split in the paint and wait for an unwelcome 20-legged visitor to crawl out of it. A fledgling must build her own nest, she must pull the twigs out of the switching blobs of mud, to make her own home. A home that will not protect her from the rain nor for flooding, wet winds thrust that threaten her and her nest. No more shall the fletching fly upon the luminous night skies with her friendly flock. No more shall she have the presence of others to pluck and comb her feathers to make herself at least semi-presentable. I must not waste my time in the big nest, for I know the treachories of what lies outside such a nest. No more shall she go to her brothers and sisters for joyous conversations for the occasional escape from boredom. This little bird will have the anxieties of the rent, the bedding, the cooking of the food, the drying of the dishes and the washing of lifeless clothes to be with her flock. If she cannot be with her flock, why will she ever feel the need to idly bruise across Macey’s selection of clothes with shapes and colours that are suited to the paintings of Andy Warhol than on a simple piece of cloth. No, with so much on her mind and so alienated from her flock, what can she do with so little energy, journey to the nearest thrift store and settle on a platter of home baked noodles, to guzzle down cans of factory made liquid and feel my throat belch and my belly bulge. Sloth will be the disease that boils my skin and sucks my soul dry. I try to convince myself that such a thing is only hyperbolic, but the deadliest of boils simmer, swell and surge overtime.