This is a letter to a swelling bird:
Sir, your eyes are miscalculating again. The grain
is yours, interest on the rest, not. Life
is not a disease to peck on, yes, your frozen flesh
trembles, but the sun is bloody with heat. Your
wings are only two, the rest is
                 imaginary. Pardon me saying so
but your worms are showing.
 
A letter to lion: your status is comfort-less moth
glued to the greater darkness behind the light.
The colossal idiocy growth in your feeble roars
is bursting
the pipes in all the throbbing bodies on the main street
with their á la mode tears;
in their dirty underwear they swear
their deaths to pave the afterword of swivelling-lessness.
If you're a king, don't undress your minors. Have some compass
in your suffering inside. Man has always been a stupid child
stepping away from his size, crushing the sound of his heaven.
He throttles music the way he should throttle you
                               
              fucking dead.
 
This - a letter to the mouse: you're a lousy drunkard
in the constellation of tea leaves, anticipating a change
in the way wind crawls through the keyhole, bleeding
blank nights away.
             I don't really understand why you keep opening
your mouth to ask questions.
You've eaten through the answer
long ago already.



                                                                  petra whiteley copyright 2011