A book of poems released to accompany a drum/sing/scream/sound performance at the exhibition Femmes Contre-Avant Garde, Amsterdam (2019).

Below is an exact. As you read hear badly played drums and sing words of your choice.

8. For I Am But a Bird.

Quawking calls of capitalistic buoyancy,
They circled around the rules of conversation.
Spreading, crawling, cradling trash talk,

Tangling.
Swooping.
Seeing words float by,

They perched on the edge of fliration,

Pick
And peck
Apart the blue and green eyelids I bathe in.

Filtered canal calls for
Sunday Swimming,
The humans close by filled with speed,

Descending into piles of
Unknown
Sleep
Deprivation.

Do the seagulls close by talk as we do?
Gossip?
Gloss over?
Guided by power

Or power guided by gliding?

We imprint ourselves into the two closest,
Seeing what humans’ eyes can swallow.
I inhaled the canal,

Dreaming of not dreaming.

For I am but a bird.
A bird named by the catcaller,
Not the bird watcher.

Cleanliness crumbled.
The gulls ate it that day.
Knowing we watched,

Or were we watching unknowing?

I slept at last.
Thinking of flight,
But never right,

Never at a polite time of night.

For I am but a bird.
Only aimed to
Dip
And dab.

For I am but a bird.

I but a bird
I a bird
A bird,

For I am but a bird but,
Not without words.