cubistpoet

The Skin Dealership Wont Return My Calls and Its Starting to Hurt My Feelings

My skin was imported from Germany,
shipped across a Trans-Atlantic Autobahn into my mothers womb and
custom-fitted to my fetusical-form, factory guaranteed to stretch though adolescence.

The catalogue read weiss,
but a pinch or two of sand must have fallen into the gears of translation
as my fleshy coveralls reflected more of a sallow tan.

The box was ameshed in strands of silver and gold
and coated with a glossy ruby paint that sparkled uniquely from every conceivable angle,
a birthing gift from my godfather, Amerigo.

The flesh-peddler was a (verbal) fence(r) from Mexico
with a penchant for buffalo-skin sports coats and unpronounceable Gods
whom Mr. Vespucci fired his flint-lock upon after a round of mismatched dueling wits.

Amerigos purchase came complete with a cornucopia of fabtifical options,
including a lifetime to the Patriarchal Pleasure Club
and a brass pot for pressure cooking cultures of any flavor.

And so my souls been riding around in the suburban mini-van of skins,
which Ive always wanted to exchange for something with more of zoomy-zoom to it,
but the sales-reps keep telling me, Like models only,
and thats why the skin dealership wont return my calls and its starting to hurt my feelings.