What is it that makes me want to stick my head in the holy oven and sing of everlasting life? What is it that makes me want to stick my head in the holy oven and sing of everlasting life until I'm blue in the face going on purple going black? Why is it then that I want to shove a plastic bag over my head and suck in furiously and laugh in my asphyxia? Curiosity my friend. Sheer curiosity. My wantings are potentially lethal. I agree. I'm an incredibly inquisitive empirical man maybe mad but I want to know. I learn fast from lurking in places I shouldn't be like sticking my beak into the dingiest of holes. Once I observed this bloke with a beak like mine jammed into the rear of a car and sniffing petrol until he fell backwards and another car ran over him freeing a flock of offal-red birds from his ribcage. A sight not worth reliving. But I do. I do. I lie awake at night and try to control the streams of consciousness the torrents of confusion that swirl behind my buoyantly mobile eyes. I talk through the murk of bursting waters. But you couldn't give a shit really about my restlessness. You lie beside me wrapped up in your deep gargling sleep. I respect you choking on your dreams and don't rouse you from the stalking primal contents which noisily part your lips. Today we've been invited to watch the loading of cattle onto a death train reeking of the smell of the abattoir. The beasts with horns can smell it too. I missed the train going south. Lucky me. Lucky you. We the unchosen. Not so for the forlorn meatworks of the field. God's ‘little' creatures. Today's selection depends on the condition of haunches and heads - not this one not that  - only the very best deserve to go to heaven. The others are returned to the sweet green fields of home. Lucky them. Lucky us. To chew another day. What is it that makes me want to lie down on railway lines and name the zoo animals clouding and reclouding overhead. I spot a vapour trail high up in the sky - a jet? a braking star? someone's eye popping out? Shall I talk to you about why I love swallowing mouthfuls of hills love coughing on sharp-edged rocks until the rivers run bloodred with my pig-like hunger           why I want to change landscapes forever? No reason my friend. Unless you call it ingesting with deadly intent. Neither you nor Mandrake showing off his new cape and top hat will ever understand. Neither you nor his tricks to bedazzle nor his sleight of hand and speed will ever take from me the good luck charm of walking from station to station in the footsteps of the ones who've made me - put bone to bone. Call them - martyrspricksnerds. Call them what you like.