The city had been deserted by the Caliphate.
The army of the Northern King
placed plaques and notices
and around these within hours
numberless, limitless flocks of parrots gathered.
In the beak of each was
the manifesto of a new fresh religion,
bakey crusty fresh,
one that millions of swallows
would be able to cohere to
without dropping a wing or heartbeat;
not one of them would question anything
(just as Adam’s skull,
in its niche in the cathedral,
never questioned anything);
The parrots in a mass
would fly into the cathedral
so that from there
the shameful liar bird
would take fright,
and run from the building,
flightless, screaming the meaning
of the plaques and notices.
A pheonix singing would chase it close behind,
and together they would leap
into a burning bush in the centre of town.
The cathedral collapsed one day.
A crowd gathered,
chewing on medlar and parrot.
The bishop of the cathedral
strove to wake them from their slumber
in caves without fish
where the water is clear and still…
Now the liar bird knows nothing of all this —
it desires nothing but your lovely pink mouth —
surreptitious,
unspeakable,
a gaudy peacock.
The parrots are teaching themselves to read
the plaques and notices, but
there is something already old
about parrots in rockets that will not launch
on a journey into space,
into the eye of the great Roc,
as it turns around inside its skin
so that you, eventually,
are out of sight.
