The Bird King is dead.

What was he?

He was a vampire shrinking from empty mirrors wiping blood from black bristles burnt feathers

He was a giant maggot oozing in a throne a toilet his excremental seat of power the chair a shocking sight the chair killing him frying in the chair’s blue embrace

He was a fool telling impossible stories unable to cope with the simplest of things doors shops television conversation memory crisps road markings the silly billy

He was a poet who hated poets

He was a fop in flamboyant attire a right pretty boy pretty polly strutting peacock decorating himself for outrageous displays of virility look at me look at me preening in a blaze of feathers and fabrics

He was a tyrant a dictator a bird-brained autocrat

He was a monster a man an animal

He was a poor little thing quivering with desires longings despair

He was a sadistic experimenter hatching bad machines bad babies bad dreams sending them out to harrow the world make it a hell a mirror to the hell in his head

He was a hapless nobody an Everyman fumbling in the dark stumbling tripping over obstacles bananas words

He was a daddy a mummy a creator a maker a broken god

He was none of the above

Now he’s nothing

The Bird King is dead

The Death of the Bird King can be purchased here.

All texts and images on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.