The mannequins


I try to enjoy my book
but the mannequins
  keep tapping
     at the window

When I look up
    they vanish

fibreglass clouds
  are kept in place
by invisible wires


Sometimes the mannequins
   get behind my eyes

I feel them tugging the strings
                 of my nerves
playing with my mechanisms

They make themselves at home
in the lumber room of my skull


     I’m most vulnerable

Last night I dreamt that
   after a stock-take
the mannequins murdered the staff
dressed them in fashionably ugly clothes
     and displayed them
           in the window

     The night before
cold hands placed plastic flowers
       on the graves
of fashion designers


My persecution
isn’t all bad though

It has its benefits

When the mannequins
   possess my hands
I tap out little poems on my phone

The index finger
                of my tweeting hand
                    pecks the touchscreen
          like a nimble bird

Words chirp
in the kingdom
of their cage

      But the hand
   holding the phone
is made of fibreglass


All texts and images on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.

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