each day a daydream

it cannot rot,

this memory of my artificial cloth.

the tillerman with a southern tone

clamped my tongue both sides of scorpion

through seas of festered light

two mothers each with thimbles in their ears,

with needles old enough to sleep alone;

each day a daydream, nothing more

than sequels from my post harmonic waves.

the picture perfect Balinese

hanging like a painting on my wall

as nervous as a fiddle chewing crack;

each sun-cry, drab and weary

is it fair to say

the moon has fewer enemies than I?

too many whispers gather to my throat

through chairs of herculean manifest

gossip-green, they choose to sit alone

temptation free

celibate and dry;

no mothers cry

no fathers day charade of pleasantries.

now old enough to know

the rag that sleeps bends brighter than a doll,

brighter than my wardrobes hidden gut;

murder me a mile

watch me crawl,

a pregnant man

if only for a while;