The Repercussions of Clipping a Parrot’s Wings by Matthew Dexter
Last night, I loaded the pipe with freebase and watched the Houston Astros balling
through the rusty rabbit ears. Ocean orange, fluorescent lime-green lizard licking rheum
from elfin earlobes and cracked corners of bumblebee-black-and-yellowed sclera, lipids
collaged upon soggy tile strewn with beach sand and albóndigas. I have a problem: spring breakers fornicating through stucco walls. Atavistic catcalls swallow the drone of static. We listen, absorbing all prerequisite lessons from Spanish professors creeping through throbbing spasms and porous nostrils filled with Mexican cocaine.
Skulls batter antique headboards–freshly painted by the parrot yesterday. I covered her feathers with pink and she smeared it. The spring breakers are invading the tropical air with the weightless inertia of parrot diarrhea in a hurricane eye-wall.
I am floating; a cartel kingpin on a kite surfing expedition…but now fragile darkness engulfs each excursion. My belly sliced; half-digested meatballs mixed with intestines, spliced flesh folded in origami fashion. Ex-husband’s parrot is the czar of the kitchen. Rabid, claws are clockwork for the freshly blind. My kitten gets decapitated.
Psittacines are defined as Al–Qaeda sleeper cells wielding hereditary machetes.
Watch the old bird dig for aluminum in the humongous fly-strewn garbage. Stomach lining tucked into labyrinthine flesh and fatty tissue. The parrot ejaculates on my shoulder. White and green feces corrodes the mahogany hat rack until it disappears; their urine puddles expand into deepening fissures beneath the golden bowl where the pussy sips in agony.
That bird sifts through wrinkled germs, searching for empties, to feed her addiction. The parrot tucks me into bed, covers me with feathers, and whether or not she knows it, we have taken flight. The moon spins and unfurls umbrellas in unison, cyclical images of a baseball diamond and seashells floating into cones and triangles; and an adjacent orgy drifting through spools and spindles, moldy air-conditioning units, caressing sunken eardrums.
Ether in air, their kaleidoscope beaks blanket my pockmarked cheeks, as the parrot strikes a match. We float toward the crumbling turquoise.
About the author:
Matthew Dexter lives in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Like the nomadic Pericú natives before him, he survives on a hunter-gatherer subsistence diet of shrimp tacos, smoked marlin, cold beer, and warm sunshine. He is the author of the novel The Ritalin Orgy (Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing, 2013).
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