the specialness of porcelain porcupine skeletons behind my near back

An unusual mixture of surrealism, 
drama and pathos
putting light in people's eyes;
I am a dying asshole.

She hates the "old" in the term old adage,
and like Gibran I haven’t been to my island
in twelve years, wailing self pity.

The bull has made me too meta-cognitive,
I talk pretty to the halftime of Halloween,
behind the nocturnal mosque,
sculptural perfection in March camouflage.

Eyes of night,
neither blinking truth,
still proof of higher power.