The blue parrots are not indigenous to these cages, son,
and the red parrots are not contagious.
Feed them the buckwheat and sunflower seeds stooked in your hand.
Do not hesitate even if you do not understand.
Like Proust, parrots are more talked about than read.
‘Words’, you see, like ‘God’, are ‘difficult’ like an unmade bed.
In their feathery conflagration they sit at the other side of the world’s honeycomb
while silence dances round them like raindrops glancing off a granite tomb.
Siddhartha, Jesus, Socrates – they who do not write – how lucky we are to have them now,
having never heard their whiny screeching voices miming the parrot’s mimetic art.
If you've any comments on this poem, Andrew Boobier would be pleased to hear from you.