KA Rees #52 - In which the boy realises the hero isn't on this page

In which the boy releases the hero isn't on this page

In this poem he’s a baleen feeder full of fingers and nails,

he’s a wonder of keratin and hairy fringes, product that

twists curls to ringlets – a power socket full of Eraserhead.

In this poem, he’s a jailhouse of Presley sideburns, black

and white stripes— a uniform, swinging air guitar, musical notes

staves and bars. In the next stanza he’s coming undone, pasty

in eight minute old light from the sun, he’s carrying

glasses and squinting at cosmic radiation; it’s

a long way to find his type of atmosphere and blue sky.

He's realised the limitations of this situation, that

a mouth full of fingers and nails, an excess of facial

growth and his particular set of windows are sub-optimal.

In the next poem he's asked to swap out this
kingdom for a horse. Can't say I blame him.