The Flying Monk
Elmer built his labyrinth
And dreamed his Daedalus escape.
For years he gathered
Feathers from kitchens,
Down from pillows,
Raided carrion, plucked dungheap birds,
Poached rare flight
And planned.
He worked gravity on a lathe,
Plotted wings, weights, wind.
And soared away his broken body.
Now,
We poor earthbound souls
Pick over the same old shit,
Hover over common ground,
Drink up the usual
In our normal twisted haunts.
Kyle Cooper reads, writes, walks. He has recently completed a Masters in Literature and Modernity and has been scribbling for some years now. He has been published in The Cadaverine and Brittle Star, and he reviews for Lunar Poetry.