Morning Every morning they come Those birds like bullets In my ear drums Those sounds so maniacal They rob my heart of a beat And send me twisting from my sleep.   And when I look across the bed And wondering why that smell remains Of perfumes distant and unnamed I think of women I’ve surely shamed.   Are you the last on the line? Electrified And stone?   I twist the blinds with my fist All rosy-cheeked and swollen And think, you bastard birds With your perpetual swansong   When will it ever end?    I lie back swallowed…