Innocent, sweet little boy
Who lives alone in an apartment of three rooms
And smokes on any given day
While he writes about smiling women
With blooming eyes
And shiny black (and blonde) hair.
Sneaky, inexplicable little man
Who pines and waits for Lady’s touch
And imagines desecration on his empty spare bed
While lost in his own chimera
Made of multiple, craving girls
Changing and saving his existence
Broken-down yet hopeful young man
Who reads Pirandello and grieves
His overly aware, over-analytical mind
Renders him to inaction
Except for words
That crafts the girl(s) of his dreams
Invalidating, unrecognizing man
With his museum of women
Feel us squirm, hear us roar
Your muses for you to control
At your own terms,
At your own will
