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Parakeet (R.E.M.)

You wake up in the morning and fall out of your bed mean cats eat parakeets and this one's nearly dead. You dearly wish the wind would shift and greasy window slide open for the parakeet who's colored bitter lime. Open the window and lift into your dreams lately, baby you can barely breathe. A broken wrist an accident you know that something's wrong you fold the leavings of your past no one knows you've gone. The sunspot flares of the early nineties light up your wings. And scan the shortwave radio it's tracking outer rings. The techtonic dispatcher shifts to smooth the ocean floor and flattens out to warmer winds of Brisbane's sunny shore. Where Buddhas tend to mending wrists a tea made from the leaves of eucalyptus fragrances and coriander seeds. You wake up in the morning to warm Pacific breeze where mean cats chew licorice and cannot climb the trees. Open your window and lift into a dream baby, baby baby starts to breathe