What a mind must there be in that bivalve sphere
With tin metal brains,clinking steel ears–
Little boy lost in some adult fears.
Where is his mother? What, are those tears?
And what could it be that caused love to hurt
A million rejections or one single spurt–one oil
Can greasing, one rusty ole turn
One simple rejection, one’s life work to earn?
If only the lonely had outlets as much
Like Robot and Oyster and James boys,
and such,
“the girl-who-turned-into-a-bed” would no longer
be touched: not by the narrator,the lover,
or whomever the crush–she’d sleep just fine
with her pillow soft hair
And dream of her heart left unfettered,
just spared
of all the injustices that men do inflict
with each little hug, with each little
prick
If that mind appeared truly to the rest of the world
It would certainly be something that most
thought absurd–
But suffice it to say, the man has his way
Of making the most of his wounds
and his days.
If our little creatures crawl out from our dust
Imagine the horror, the demons, the lust
that would swallow up children and spit out the bones
and make for Tim Burton just another night’s prose.
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