Outside the gulls screech and shit on the windowsill. Now it is Hitchcock. A penguin with a camera Tying gulls to their shoulders. Mothers, tie their children's mouths Shut. Fathers learn to smoke cigars and say nothing.
Poker machines turn on rows of pecking red.
Dragging lumpy blubber child Away from the phosphate piles at their heels. The sandcastles crumble to shapeless mounds. The men open their rusting bunker lips. Out of their gape pours wing after melted wing. There is always a choice.