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Quiet bird
Quiet bird,
sit on my woolen shoulder,
and don't sing,
since you're a quiet one.
since the air is still,
the sand is warm.
Fly to the arm
of the rocking chair perched.
Silent bird perched
in the middle of the air,
still
I'll dictate a letter,
with my last envelope
send it to the place I'll be,
send it presently,
dressed for all weather.
Camel by the window,
ride it.
He drinks milkshakes
with his last straw.
Country Music
I shot all my horses
I live in a city.
I thought I would be too kind to freeze.
My stable door
where the horse is bolted shut
with bolts thick and imposing,
and showing signs of rust.
My guilt is a glove,
holding a blue glove,
for some reason I came out
without a pair of mittens.
My voice in winter is an autumn tree or squirrel
bare of leaves
and clothed in a knitted jumper.
Untitled
I mailed assignments for my correspondance course
at midnight.
I tested the matress.
I stuck the two halves of my spectacles together
I made sure they were clean,
and as always,
fingerprints remained.
I cleaned them again.
I searched for the black outline of a red postbox.
I held envelopes in my hand.
On the way there, I felt the urge to hug a passerby.
Runover by a small toy car, on a Scarelextrics track on every street corner. I jumped out of its path.
The next collection is 5pm tomorrow.
3am - For some reason I wore the mask of a hare, and then placed it on a pillow, picked up the mask of the owl. Became curious and vain in the bedroom's tall mirror.
4 am - did what I did as a small child at parties. Vomited with excitement. Re-read your letter.
I asked myself about the dream in which a shop's endless array of sweets
turned out to match the colour of the curtains.
Happy New Year,
P.B. Imagiste