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While cleaning the aviary (Haiku) by Jeremi B. Handrinos
Webs, feathers, eggshells Not a song left to whistle Rats run these corners

Down the ladder: Igor's inspiration

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Arithmetic Mean: 6.6
Weighted score: 5.8
Overall Rank: 1695
Posted: May 28, 2003 9:37 AM PDT; Last modified: May 29, 2003 11:56 AM PDT
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[9] Robert K Foster @ | 29-May-03/10:42 AM | Reply
is it aviary? or avery? I'll have to look that up.
great poem!
[n/a] Jeremi B. Handrinos @ > Robert K Foster | 29-May-03/11:38 AM | Reply
Aviary, thank you Robert, and good morning.
[n/a] -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. @ | 29-May-03/11:40 AM | Reply
---Black bile oozed between Grandfather's lips, and
dripped onto the attendant's bloated abdomen. The
drip became a trickle, which became a steady stream,
and soon he was vomiting a thick torrent of the
shining liquid.
---Where it touched the attendant, it boiled and
frothed and formed a sickly lather, and as it
bubbled it ate away at the flesh. The skin on the
man's stomach was becoming liquid and starting to
slide around. Beads of blood sprang up where the
upper layer had been completely dissolved.
---Grandfather's head lolled forward, and underneath his
bushy, flaking eyebrows, his blind eyes rolled
insanely. With a sudden fluid movement of his arm,
he unhooked the straight razor from its holster and
flipped out the dull blade. It was just as he
---His obscenely gnarled hands trembled, and his
breath was rapid. Grandfather hunched over the
attendant, reaching out and stroking the places that
had been prepared by the mucus. His jaw still hung
slightly open as he bent down for a closer view...
---And Grandfather began to shave.
Splendid, with linking verbs and grooming, ah, yes. My grandfather had Parkinson disease, and I would park him precariously at the top of the basement stairs. Leave him there for hours, and even more hours, to ponder the jagged paint chipped depths and irregular angels. Breathe down his neck rhythmicly while wispering the laws of gravity just outside of his ear. Buttering up a finely toasted warm cinnamon bagel. The crackel of that knife pulling over the sweet toasted bagel. Like cracking ice & frosty mud under well balanced frozen tires. Yes, love thy elders.
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