Bulbul*
Bulbul
He cut his tiny penis,
Placed it in an envelope,
Sent it to her.
No return address,
No companion note,
No signature.
When she opened it,
A bulbul emerged,
Vocal and hungry.
She placed it on a perch,
Fashioned out of driftwood,
Fed it melon seeds
Lightly roasted.
Every time she strummed the strings
Of her guitar,
The bird violently orgasmed.
She remained oblivious to
Its toxic thoughts.
Instead, she worried it might be cold
And whacked up the temperature.
He wanted her to be shocked
To open the envelop and see a sorry mess
To scream, to throw up,
Feel guilty, feel frightened,
Diminish in some way.
He failed to factor in
The magic that happens inside envelops,
Angry penises
Transform into birds,
Into songs,
Into unlikely companions.
