I've been through this before
birds chirping into my airspace,
awake when I should be sleeping.
Good girls dream of princes,
want to be slain
by love, piercing their virtue.
Golden-throated birds in crystal cages
sing sweetly for suppers --
hair of newt, spleen of worm, smoky
incantations inducing pleasure.
Warm hearts beating do not imply love
Lore is explicit; there is no crime.
I am inconvenienced by the regular
comings and goings of
the natural world.
Birds of a feather exchanging their
It is I who should be sleeping,
dreaming of brave new worlds;
random ambient sounds translated into