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Dabble
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I Walk Naked Into a Cloud
I dabble, in the vernacular, this image laden manifesto
that pops up like an icon in the cigarette smoke
surrounding my head. No matter how many "good day's"
are flung at me, still I find the cheerful smiles as comforting
as rubbing my skin against a cheese grater. Shifting
saltwater like cough drops in my mouth. Oh, how the raspy
sound of my lips dampen my spirits as the curtains close.
Parade my mocking eyes like armies marching to their doom.
Run my fingers through my hair with metal comb, it bleeds
the skin and rushes the air from the mind. Some negro-coloured
bodies are cavorting in the backdrop of the losing side.
I hear something. The muddle fogs closer and I have
new opinions to force upon myself. Harsh as childbirth I
draw my pants down to my knees. Surrender the manhood to
the Cheshire grin of emasculating nothing people who perfume
the room with their polluted points of view.
I won't care, I won't be brave.
I'll let the yellow line down my back become my flag that
I will wave like a limp penis above the towers of deceit.
Whose roots need planting? Not mine, at least not the
roots from which I've grown. Do the magic markers represent
all the colours? Or are there shades of others that we are
not allowed to use? I'm not sure anymore which thought
is fresh and which is used up like a bleeding tampon that
has fallen asleep beside my parlour-game disguise.
I won't care. I won't be brave.
I won't call out anyone's name when I climax.
