au-dessus des nuages ~ Saturday, July 11, 2026

When my head is on your bosom I feel
how to say this without sounding creepy
even though it is not above the clouds
not above what dirty pillows reveal

mostly about cultural repression
yes, I feel like a little boy, sleepy

head on the breasts of his mother, the crowds
everywhere point at an old man, outré
answer me this, why live in suppression
decidedly as puritanical

in cultural mindset as runaways
sinister, ever so maniacal

old world values, we reject but who says
new age thought is any better, how gay

yes gay, as in queer as fuck, strange, old man
on her heavy bosom, her massive breasts
until you become old, you will not long
restless as a toddler, seeking to span

both ways, the length and breadth of the nation
only to swim, bike, or run as suggests
solitary ultra athletes ping-pong
over great expanses to discover
many miles later, there is no station

I seek to embrace the sad, little boy

forgotten and neglected by myself
elastic memories stretch like a toy
embrace the little boy, sad, on a shelf
left all alone, his past to recover