Chickens

Chickens drift around with no souls. She says I will not eat chicken, they have souls. Tell that to Tyson.

My friend lives in the basement apartment of two chicken raising lesbians. One of the chickens slowly developed the features of a Rooster. After research and an e-mail to one of the leading Poulty scientists of America, they learned their chicken's gender transgression had been caused by an ovarian cyst.

The chicken in question was consequently dubbed »Chooster,« as an allusion to the animal's non-gender-identifying status.

gotta go now and scratch up some chicken feed
scrabbly with the claws in the pan
to feed this little chicken

my aunt said when the world is coming to it's end, she will have tended chickens. And she'll go through the streets screaming »I've got the Chickens!« (of course, she'd have eggs and stuff like that too.)

The Pimp Chicken collective was at hand, and we awed at His Highnesses Rinestone Glory. Beside him were other Traits Incarnate: The Monkey of Judgement, swingin' from a worm hole by his tail, his arms folded, looking down on us earthlings, judging who was a cat and who was not... The Sly Dog of Stealth, mangey from late-night bars and one-night stands, playing Cupid for all the hipsters in the world. And many, many more. All in league with the Pimp Chicken, all determining that thing, that thing that drives our generation, and the youths of the past, and the youths to be....

it was early. chickens were in the street. a detective was at the door, oh my. i crawled to the window one thousand stories old. looking out, i saw specks of tiny color moving this way and that in apparent abandonment. here and ther were forest animals raising hell with a minister from the palace. a wedding was in progress. no plains or mountains couls be seen. a beautiful blond playing i've lost mu pussy entered and just as abruptly left the green-gold pulsating chamber. a blue rat as big as alaska floated by on a raft and i began to disappear.

Connect chickens to writing through their feathers which were once used to make quills.

We decided one night that we do indeed believe in the Pimp Chicken... there he is, up in the sky, stretched out across the universe like fog over the Mississippi, and here we are, milling around like ants at his feet, and we wish upon the stars that are the rhinestones on his jacket, and fruitlessly try to control the destiny he has already predetermined for us in his all-jazz infinite hip-jive.