Geppetto. Poem by Alistair Plint

A unique declaration
she does;
the girl
I call
Geppetto.

Oh no,
it's not that
she's old
or gray.
She's incapable
of carving
existence from
lumber.

She does
have
me
(with about ten other
unsuspecting male
candidates)
thoughtless.
Controlling
my fantasy
like
a marionette
on a thread.

I linger
in the hours
of witches
and dream
of a fairy
to respire
existence
deep into my
lungs.
Make a real man
from the lifeless
script,
imagination
and controlled
sentiment -
in the depths
of my
wicked
desire
and
fairytale.

In the
sweet-sales
part of the
pretentious
story,
it's not
my nose
that's
on the rise.
(Though my crotch
has been known
to respond.)

I suppose there
is a time
no matter
how dark our
hearts are,
that we
begin
to cut
our own ties
and breathe
our own life
into our
Oregon-Pine
souls.

At least
this allows us
to instruct
our limbs
as we
wave...

good-bye.

-x-