Artichoke Man

I am the artichoke man

Peel me back

And look inside.

There is a fetus, an umbilical cord,

And three bottles of milk for when I cry.

Now I am grown up to be a boy.

Read to me, read to me, o child

I am losing your essence.

On another dark midnight

My lover, in another’s coils, held at the waist

The radiator hum keeps company

Quarter glass wine and a cigarette

Shy fog hangin’ round.

No humor left for the time being.

Breaths draw the outline of a heart on my shirt

“I won’t turn into Bukowski”, I proclaim to myself loud.

Brand new sheets just rinsed,

Fetal body curled left

L’homme révolte, to awaken yet

The evening, young, even a lily-face

Waiting, where the nightlife is blooming:

But I go to bed.