6am, a frenetic face rang.
Morning trudged over the horizon,
No longer permitted to nest
in the waning shadows,
I was compelled to follow.
Tumbling loosely to the washroom,
I did not meet a familiar
but did meet a voluptuous crimson apple
In place of a visage once kissed
by my father, my friends, my lovers.
Certain the last cords of slumber were cut,
I finger curiously these newfound curves.
Be it better if only I were able to see it?
And this orb betrays
For my mind never knew snow white
but bed nightly vanity fair.
Or the weighty sin Adam bit into?
And in this moment of Cartesian doubt,
I dance for not the Dream but the Demon.
Be it better if we all carried on our heads
our own fruity apparitions?
Then Hieronymus was never merely an artist
but a metaphysical seer,
And we all are readymade subjects
for Jung’s mural of the unconscious.
Casting lofty thoughts aside,
Shining the skin of this reddish complexion,
I climbed outside, anxiously
waiting for the world
to welcome me.
Drifting about, I met only disappointment
When others took less notice
than if I wore a new hat.
Until that day a stranger grabbed my face
and bit me.
His desire hung, shamelessly.