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
MB Blissett 