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A pump in his pocket keeps him alive;
bilge of old sea water from a dying planet.

At night, he slips his human skin,hangs it
In the closet next to his one good suit.

They cut him open once to see the stuff
he was made of: an Indian head penny,

a yellow cats-eye marble and a locket
with a portrait of the queen.

Home is a light year and aeons ago,
he fell from the heavens like lightning.

Alone, he pulls the shades locks the doors
where he is free to be what he is,

a fish-faced monster with three eyes
who promptly at nine, with an unobstructed

view of the southern sky, sips Dewar's
on the balcony, listens to Mozart and waits

for the signal that never comes, the frequency
to trip a diode in his head, the sequence,

the count down to terminus.

Good one. Don’t we all feel like outsiders? And mortal?
Love a monster who
sips Dewar's
on the balcony, listens to Mozart

I actually like the first half better than the last. But I like the whole poem pretty much. Very good.

Thank you both

good one marooned. Keep it up

Thanks Simon. If you're not a troll, welcome to the forum

I like this weird poem
weird creature that
sucks bilge water from his dying planet.
Great imagination, really good.

Brilliant poem, Ken. You have a great imagination.

'he fell from the heavens like lightning'.

I think we'll have to watch out next time there's a storm.

Eira

Thank you Eira.

Ty Frank

Hi kenneth,

How about a comma after "shades" -

Alone, he pulls the shades, locks the doors


and who for "what" -

where he is free to be who he is,


Or as -

where he is free to be himself,


just workshop-share; not conditional



Michael (MV)

MV..good eye as usual