The Conspiracy Theorists

We never had the feeling of being
the melted men, came back watched
all day, fast forwarded to our end;
their calling voices from that calling day.

Memories fluttering behind, the picture
driving through Dartmoor, across our minds
we climbed; and watched as ravens soared,
lifting the picture from the wall,
releasing a tiny silver clockwork moth;
snake charmed our eyes linger, in her clapping throat
flying kites are wild ponies, for the jury
she wispers a miniature Stealth Bomber's song
as city seagulls decimate a pigeon.

When we take our hands away
it is a hundred years of domestic birds, flying
around the world's head dresses, and carcasses ascend
perching on the top, two tall buildings
swoop into ragged and perilous mountains;
their calling voices from that floating day.