My garden is full of mechanical birds
they flutter freely
build real nests,
splatter synthetic shit
with abandon.
The feathers are painted
by gifted interns
paid nothing
but allowed to hold a bird
once a week.
I track the flock
on my phone until
tapping the screen
brings them back to my shed
where I pull apart wires,
break fragile necks,
watch the light fade,
then in the morning
solder the world
together again.
John Porter is a poet based in Gloucestershire. His work has appeared in publications including “The Stinging Fly”, “Prole” and “Strix”.
Related
This article appears in the 25 Nov 2020 issue of the New Statesman, The last days of Trump