Saturday, September 17, 2005

peasant pheasants

Devil bird! Horned fowl beast!
Curse the peasants no more.
Pack up your feathers and fly home to hell.

There you live with your trident and flames, plotting endless destruction to those who live near excrement spattered waterway pavements. There you gather together a terrifying army, a million minions of pheasanting destruction. You administer them with broken pheasant guns and shiny pheasant badges proclaiming their hatred for all that is not fowl and screeching.

You have been spreading your foul wings of destruction. You have been moving to Bosnia and agitating the Irish. You divebomb from the skies with a squawk of terror and pluck the bratiswurst from their fingers. Poor peasant potato farmers. They have nothing left to eat. They have to take up the melodica and play on street corners, just to scrape togther pennies to stay alive.

After a while, you drive the peasants insane. The screaming of disconcerted killer birds in their ears, they pack up thei melodica for a world tour. They sit in the dark corners of cafes with harmonicas and whisper to terrified customers
>>>>>>>>>>>>>“would you like to look inside my magic box?”
They will make music and move on, take a top floor flat and leith and start trying tracks about hedgehogs and poodles.
>>>but they will never forget the killer birds.

Screeching terror noises will ease their way into the improv midi tracks. Keyboard solos dispersed with wide throated synth clucks and sqwauks.

Eventually, the peasants will take to dressing like birds, gathering dirty feathers and rags from street kerbs and tying them to their clothes with dental floss, stiching them to their hats and shoes. They will fail to shave for weeks, and develop spiky birdlike faces with agitated ginger teeth. They will whine their melodia boxes in and out in and out in and out. Like arthritic accordions, wheezing out crippled folk songs of Croatian wildernesses.

They will begin to miss the birds.
They will start spilling tippex in each others hair for that freshly pooed on effect.
They will lie in bed at night pecking at each other with unbeaklike lips.
Sometimes, they will cry out bird noises in their sleep and wake up embarrassed, ashamed to admit to the other peasants their secret horned fowl love.


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