I Built This Treehouse in the Ground

Chp 11: Fashion Mold

As 10 o'clock feeds hungers growl,
I sit and watch, alone I prowl.

Through cupboards pass
my hand grows lonely.

Through bones I seep,
my face not only.

But through my arms and down my legs,
and ask not my chest, for none remains.

But it growls I hear, a tumultuous temper.
I shush my intestines, I bleed my own sweater.

Through skin like rice paper,
though uneaten, left undead,
I pull through this acid, running down porcelain threads.

And shaped like an "O", but oval in shape,
I sleep through this gift, like a manic escape.

Because pages and pages, they cut through my eyelids.
And what I am left with is imperfect, stiff silent.

And down the drain, swivel, and shaking, and dancing,
I find myself quiver with remorse and romantics.

Romancing my dance with the oval and threads,
as pages and pages run amuck in my head.

Of smiles and relaxing, of endless affairs, of dashing
camaraderies, of life without care.

A hidden remark, a lavish parade,
a full on pursuit of this tainted mistake.

Removed from this cupboard are dreams all run out,
with families disconnected and fathers thinning out.

With lists of repairments, with holes in the sky,
away from these dangers, these fears I would fly.

Alone is the hippie, depressed is the punk,
remorse is dance music, and demise is all the funk.

So step off this cupboard, and breathe in the night,
and jump off this cupboard into diamonds and bright light.

The flash of photography, the lust of the heat,
produced by these products, discharged by my feet.

It dribbled off the seat, was an accident for sure,
off that oval of a smile, threads of porcelain for this whore.

But I smile when I'm hurting, and I eat when I'm dying,
But I cake my own scars to daub my own crying.

Because bones are my fashion, and my bruised knees like the cold
of the linoleum floor that my body will soon enfold.