Character: MARTHA WASHINGTON, the last passenger pigeon. Female-presenting, any age.
MARTHA:
From 1620 to 1880
we had the best orgies.
Well, I guess we had sex with one pigeon at a time, thousands of times over. So it was more of a gangbang….
But still,
it was a religious experience.
I miss the good old days.
We were a sultry and promiscuous species.
You should have been there.
Ten to twelve million pigeons would descend on an old growth forest….
Make the most of every branch.
Hell, sometimes we killed saplings and knocked over injured trees.
But we fertilized twenty square miles a day.
Even the trees came out ahead.
Sure, bad day to be a deer, but they could just stay in a glen till we were done.
Stupid deer.
Oh, we were so happy.
Someone would alight on the edge of my nest,
sing me a song and do me a dance.
They’d come in and we’d sing a song and do a dance.
Then we’d fuck.
They’d fly away.
Our shared post-coital bliss
would sustain us
for about twelve seconds.
Then someone would alight on the edge of my nest,
sing me a song and do me a dance.
They’d come in and we’d sing a song and do a dance.
Then we’d fuck.
They’d fly away.
Oh Gawain
Oh Boors
Oh Percival
Oh King Arthur
Oh Peter Frampton
Oh Jon Bon Jovi
Oh Abraham Lincoln
Oh Glen Miller
Oh George Michael.
George you were probably the best one of all. At least top 700. But that was so long ago. Before I was netted and brought here from my Kenosha roost. George I can barely remember you, your tiny coo, your saliva preened feathers, your nearly-completely-parasite-free feet, your pigeon-sex-slicked-cock.
There’s nothing in the world like pigeons.
How we love each other,
right on your rooftop when you’re trying to sleep in.
Oh George Michael, I can still see your face.
