Sun's Poodle

I need to work this shit out: 

I want the winter to be my friend.

But in the winter entreaty's lexicon evades me

and I carry summer's kiss blandly tattooed across my fabric.

The sun's poodle wavers, sidles gingerly

into an imagined crack between hibernation and denial,

only to find that fantasy is reified in times and places of its own choosing.

And it's so fucked up, it does my head in.

I am mis-classified.

By whom? As what? Well, when I've found a suitable image to contain these thoughts

I'll be sure to let you know. I am a lizard in the crack of a sun baked stone house's wall.

Sun's poodle puts his testosterone back in his handbag;

I am a cracked lizard in a stone-baked sun house.

I am the wall.

I am the fly the lizard hunts; I am drunk; I am mulling things over;

fuck it, I am the sun's poodle.

Limousin, August 2010