Hummingbirds Her mind is a hummingbird and her irises are wings, flittingfrom point to point, a shrill whistle coming from lips, overflowingwith lily-nectar. There are bare brick roads beneath her feet but shedoes not notice. Birds don't need feet. She is a bird. Small, light,the girl with stars in her eyes who sees herself with peacock featherstucked into her pockets.His thoughts are neat little boxes and the hummingbird has unpacked them with frantic fluttering. He is more of a stoic magpie, the sortwho is labelled as 'sorrow' but will still sing a song for those whorecoil in the hope he can reunite Pangaea. He is, nonetheless, distr
Compulsive Liar The fox won't let me tell you the truth. He is glinting at mefrom orange eyes again. 'Don't tell them. Pretend. Imagine, likeyou did when you were younger. It's all a big game.' The dog hashis ears pricked forward and is chasing his tail next to my leftfoot.I don't think he doubts me.The fox wants me to open up a conveyor belt leading straight from my mouth into peoples' ears. He's made his own productionline for me: a thousand identities, two eye-colours, alternatebeauty marks, three accents and a past straight out of Shakespeare'squill. He wants me to flick my tongue and weavean odyssey, spin on the spot and become a b
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