Time plays games
with me and
          she’s been winning
On an off-kilter axis,
Atlas, the world is spinning
a little too fast

It’s been months
already since I
          shed my masks

still somehow I’m surprised
it doesn’t show
how bright
I am
newborn it’s-a-baby-girl pink
where
                                                       (ar­e you excited?)
smooth skin meets the
grindstone
peeling away scales grown
denying myself

You promised, Momma,
you’d never be embarrassed
how could you be
I mean
I am new-born-baby-girl pink
light and airy          
                
                          not so sure
                          its a sure thing
                          you’ll see

But

the truth is that I
don’t have to
open my mouth
               to be

                            and somehow

that makes it all



              a little



                               slower

The lunacy of
touching you, to plug a-
hole, in your innocence.

I wanted to explore
the horizon in your eyes,
where sun meets moon,
in graveyard of sins
and virtues.

Before you had become
my shadow, I used to smell
a distant scent coming
from a slithering
wet body.

I fumble for the words
for mercy of pain. My desert
was once a sea.

I name you Pygmalion
because between
my skin and delusion
you have carved
an ivory woman. You
have carved her
with your eyes. But
for all your looking,
you can’t see, little
blind man, that
I have no need
of Aphrodite’s blessing.
In the strength
of my spine
and the flash
of my teeth
and the skill
of my hands, hands
you did not hew,
I hum with
power, ferociously
alive.
The only thing of mine
you will ever be king of,
King Pygmalion,
is the likeness
you sculpt
in your dreams.

Sterile-cold and smelling
slightly of antiseptic
two leather half-moons
press into the crests
of your cheekbones.
The lenses click
swirling in their sockets
cover first one eye
and then the other.
Can you read the
writing on the wall?
Lovely lotus eater
swallowing desire or
wallowing in an advert
you’ve reached a
new peak
you are the epitome
the consummate consumer.
Your new glasses
may compliment your
cashmere
but they won’t
help you see.