Three Letters by Petra Whiteley

More Poetry
by Petra Whiteley

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.