Seagulls of Torry

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A terror of gulls
In the fish house fug of Torry at dawn
Echoing Qlippothic calls fill the aether
Like shrieking banshees, they wheel in the granite sky.
Evolving, predatory, fearing nothing, snatching cats and the occasional infant, the tips of their beaks are crimson.
Reptilian eyes regard you with cold contempt, defying you to match their stare.
Winged hyenas fight for the carrion of Saturday night,
Broken bones, shattered glass, kebabs and blood.

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