Dutch Masters Music

by dschapman

We sat on my balcony smoking good weed watching the lights twinkling red, yellow and green in the valley. If it weren’t for the house and the trees, we could have seen everything, as though all it were ours, and only ours, as we watched it, owning it with a viewing. “Don’t put too much into it,” they warned us. To me, they said, “Be careful.”

I drank until my liver turned over and I hunt myself off the railing. Only eight feet off the ground felt like I was swaying on the edge of the canyon, on the ridge at the end of the world, into mist, vague and shapeless, with a featherless bird falling past me.

Speaking of the featherless bird – feathered now, and invincible – drunk with me, watching me, sending me signals that unnerved me. In the distance I could feel its wars, but here outside the window it looked different, close in space and intimate, and it looked at me over a long curving beak and it did not blink at me, and I became slowly terrified. It tapped something on my window. It sounded like morse code. “You’re a chicken,” it said. “You’re a spooky little chicken.”

Spooky birds making spooky accusations. The dog barked at it until it flew away and I thought about shooting it while its back was turned, wings widespread and legs dragging through the listless air behind him.

The dog has worms.

I can see them writhing in his shit.

He drags his ass along the rug to scratch his itches. Worms in the rug.

A movie plays of a king in a purple robe speaking French. That’s what happens you don’t speak French.

It reminds me of 1066. You should have been there. What a time.

 

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