The Ducks Learn to Sing

A flock of ducks gather on the oval of a small catholic primary school;

and one of the ducks says, “QUACK”,

while one of the other ducks quacks, “Why the fuck don’t we fight BACK?”

and there’s a ruckus among the duck-us,       

The sky, turns grey;

A bloody scream

and then a dream, lifts up, floats and settles upon those furry beings,

tension rising, quacks colliding,

a blue glow, like that of the moon or a monsoon or doom or a witch

flies by on a broom, cackling, lipping her lips at the supple little quacklings

as they work it out, slowly;

as they work it out, slowly.

WHY are we the ducks?  WHY are we not running amok, but stand thoughtless upon this oval, this green circle of nothingness, of void.  FOR WE ARE THE DUCKS!  Not a dove, not a sock or glove—we are US!  THE DUCKS!

Essence flows forth of duck of quack of muck and luck and

ruck-us as the birds’ feathers flap wild and free like they’ve been untethered and it’s almost a quarter past eleven and dark and night and this is not time for this kind of flight or fight or insight, for that matter, but this matters, even though, as you might think you know, it’s just a small and comical part of a bigger flow—but this is the ducks, and here the ducks are; there is no denying this.

QUACK.

One marches for with a rifle held, soldier-style, around it’s neck; this duck no longer attacks with pecks, on cheeks, but with flutters of love from a gun and without the sun even having risen the ducks are planning a collision with the inner core of sensuous society, don’t fire at me I’m just a man, I have no plan, I have no clan and I sure as hell don’t want no quack to put me back in the ground where I was first found leading a small group of clouds to some distant sound I’d heard, far off in the grey distance, to which I was once an assistant carrying boxes of paper to and fro until my mind overflowed with feelings of bordeom and hatred and self-righteous degradations, THIS is where the quack of the duck can take us, THIS is where the back of a duck can deface us; there are no lives in this place she takes us, just a bunch of them, gathered on a small catholic school’s oval disrupted by an instinctual noise that blasts out, like torrential rain water from an unchecked spout, overflowing, flowing, flowing almost like it’s snowing but the snow has melted already and forms puddles on the floors of my blind mind, unable, incapable, inescapable, because it’s been tasted and the appetite is insatiable, bloodlust for bread crusts and a marching row of ducks, now exiting in formation through a wire fence, a small hole that’s been made somehow, releasing them, mechanically, methodically, on by one, step by step into the world, little helmets on and feathers rhythmically moving out from and then back closer to their furry chests, as soldiers march quack, quack, quacking into the ignoble, ignorant, empty world, where people sleep and watch screens and eat duck meat and never have the fucking TIME to even GLANCE down at their feet, where these rascals will be, one by one, step by step, carving their way through the flesh of duck and non-duck alike; they have no discrimination; they have risen from the—QUACK—dead, of the mind that is, which is, how is, it, to be, that they can now see the errors of their ways—QUACK—but without dwelling, without quelling the rage, that daze one receives when they realise they’ve been deep in a maze—QUACK—for a long—QUACK—long—QUACK—LONG fucking time, wondering, thinking, thinking thinking thinking, so hard about how to get out, about whereABOUTS their destiny is to be FOUND—QUACK—and finally the day came and now they seem insane because fuck me it’s like they never been ingrained, now marching, now fasting deep into the night, waiting, deep focus, the image of Man in their little round heads, their feather beds in which none sleep, for they are beds of the mind, allowing a soft, cushiony, fluid journey in through your bedroom window, over the sill, onto your bed, under your covers and —QUACK—into your sleepy little mind, delving, delving, delving—QUACK—STILL DELVING, further and further down, well into your dreams now, well WELL into the seams that tie together your existence but which in all truth are NO SEAMS AT ALL, but illusory differentiation—QUACK—illusory discrimination—QUACK—the products of old, crusty, non-consensual insemination, a false elevation, a sticky old quacky whacky way of looking at creation, until, finally, quack, the ducks will reign victorious, annexing it all—that is, nothing at all; the fall of man, negated, furry creatures of the oval, fated to be soldiers of the night, marching, marching, ever-lasting glow resulting from a spark not heard not seen not touched in the dark, but fallen from the sky, infinite and with bliss on top like a small, red artificial cherry, contrasting in a tacky way with the white of pure whipped cream; and alas, quack, the ducks, quack, have learned to sing.

Quack.