silver necked pigeons
"Its a funny old world, ain't it?" My father said as we glared at a silver necked pigeon, it's ivory wings almost dove like, made it distinct from the pack that dotted at the scraps of pillar bread. The son beamed arrogant in The afternoon, cars scraped along the pavement wolfIng each other doWN. pedestrians lined the streets as mini zebra crossing, the air seemed to pulse with electricity. My father's bitter tone hung in the air.
" Am I too respond to that?"
He shook his head slowly,
" be Peter pan, they never tell you growing up.is.overrated."
" Grownups hurt a lot don't they?" I asked .
"Pain seems to be an acquired taste for some...." and you?every time you asked him a question too deep, he left. I didn't want him to leave, it was a bizarre strait of events that led to the murder of my father, this evolved fantasy version of him in this strange interplanetary orb had changed many things my father was, yet not his original version, broken, damaged, stinking of booze, his saviour his lover his life. I tried to cuddle this whisper of air but only ended up traumatized by its invisibility. I realised then I never wanted to hug my father or hold his hand I just wanted to talk to him about the things that didn't make sense, then I realised he was tilted. His world made no sense either..