Parakeet
I am driving a parakeet
up a motorway. Soon I will be
unable to park for other
parakeets. The streets
are filled with the squawk
of the parakeet fleet,
nesting on the verge of
madness. There are more
parakeets per square feet
than anyone. They transport me,
honking, from B to A,
each parakeet bumper to
parakeet bumper. Bumper
numbers. My parakeet wheels
squeal to a standstill.
Look at my parakeet:
the radio tells me that a
parakeet has jack-knifed, and that
the M25 is littered with
more parakeets than you could
dream of seeing, in a
month of parakeets. Nobody
travels by blackbird. It has
fallen into the fat hands
of private collectors.
