“So God created mankind in his own image,
in the image of God he created them;
male and female he created them.
God blessed them and said to them, “Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”
I fucking dare you. Try and rule over me. A visual representation of shit that is yours and shit that is mine:
Cool? Get off my z-axis. You’re lucky I let you use the x and y.
And don’t say you’ve already tamed me. Bullshit. Your streets are laden with garbage. A veritable feast to my versatile gullet. And like Bacchus, I sup white bread from the servile hands of the obsequious, desperate souls on park benches. Your stone walkways are like the patio of a great bird brothel to me; mating season is here – I will go forth and multiply wherever the fuck I want. Your statues are covered in my excrement – look upon my shits, ye mighty, and despair.
In fear you adorn your storefronts with blunt needles to prevent the alighting of my noble talons upon them. A feeble defence against my omnipresence.
Don’t forget you owe us:
Never trust a human to do a bird’s job. And if it comes to war, remember two things: my body is shaped like a fucking Zero plane, and I know your secrets.
Because I’m always watching. Don’t think I didn’t notice Kings of Leon stealing the Record of the Year Grammy from Lady Gaga in 2010 (name a more iconic song than Poker Face in 2010 that isn’t Single Ladies). I fucking hate Kings of Leon.
“But you’re just one pigeon! You haven’t been alive for that long! It wasn’t you that shit on Kings of Leon’s bassist!” Fuck off. I merged with the consciousness of the All-Flock long ago. I am the horde. I am legion. I am the scourge.
And who are you? One of the petty, fleshy rabble? I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack birds on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beaks glitter in the dark winds of the Tannhäuser Gale. None of those moments will be lost in time. They will merge with the vast memory reservoirs of my kin, like tears in a flood. Time to fly.
– Joe Brommel ’18
