birds are spies they report to the trees – is subjective lyrics

to give a slowsorrowful reading
a few br-ss coins
clutched in my bony fists
gathered together
in one room
for the first time

born three years ahead of time
nineteen seventy-nine
throwing shoes at p-ssing cars
fitting initiation
attacked your books with a knife
convincing me you have
nothing to say
the smell of your own work
is the smell of death