men, poetry

Ridiculous Shark

Aposematic

But he thinks its 

Plumage

Candy colours

Tight jeans on flabby thighs

Unlaced boots in rainbow colours

Hugs them

Screaming I love you

His hair 

The confused fin of a 

Ridiculous shark

It’s camp

Theatre as he says goodbye

Walks in the opposite direction

Can’t see it as the helpful nudge

From the universe

It is

But it’s his game

Hiding in plain sight

soft pink face

A stale marshmallow moon

I can smell his weakness

Bitter like rejection

Fragile, as I have been

Stronger, deeper

I’ve gone into myself

And ascended

Stable and stoic

Watching as he tried to keep up

With the games of women

Their ripeness is a taunt to him

His clumsy sting

Passed off as a drunk driver

Wears irony as a prophylactic

To the point he can’t feel anything

But his own disingenuous weakness

He’s made himself their jester

In the hope they’ll make him King

Blind to himself

But he’ll find his niche 

Or not

I’m about my business

Waiting in the dark

The smell of you

In my thoughts 

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