Time for Tenderness

When I awoke I lay tied to a foreign bed.

Inside a house sown out of human flesh.

A palace of skin graft architecture.

Oh desolation! I can't stand to fuck these walls.

Desolation! I can't stand to suck these halls.

But how do I sleep when the skin I stroke

underneath the sheets is mannequin plastique?

And I wonder where the girl who slept beside me has gone.

When the faces in the photos stare with glass eyed mystique

Tick, tick, tick, tock I watch the clock for tenderness.