QUILTED



‘Twas midway in the afternoon, I was on my father’s lot.
Empty was the room, the air was sticky hot.
No program on the telly, no viddy on the screen
Seconds were surely slacking, stirring the obscene.

Absent of ideas, I resorted to a task
To build myself a friend, and hide him in a mask.
Innards filled with wires, tied round bones built with sticks.
His flesh made of quilts, eyes of lighted wicks.

He rose to his feet, this life conceived in boredom.
Though hunched in modern horror, I admit I adored him
He laughed, my friend I made, laughed a jaunting jiggle.
I couldn’t help but laugh along with his infectious giggle.

Unconventional was his presence, unusual at best.
With ever-long desire, his menace knew no rest.
Those quilted hands, meticulously stitched to perfection,
Suddenly took hold of me, misguided with affection.

Limbs and  joints had pulled from every popping socket
Replaced with wood and wire, the transition toxic.
Unknown were the motives, though I suspect that deep within
He wanted to be the same as me, so he made me just like him.


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