Random Acts of Poetry

Ticking

On a steeped night
that sticks to the skin,

he peels off seven layers
of wallpaper

as jingles and voices
waft by like smoke.

The poet scribbles and scribbles
about a ticking suitcase,

then shuts
the moon in a drawer,

bored as a caged monkey.
His thoughts rise

in word balloons
that appear to say:

You are a soft, pink dildo,
dishwasher safe.

You are a hard steel chisel.
But useless. No use.

The chakras won't open,
he's blind from the klieg lights.