Homunculus
       

Sunlight pours into the Russian theater
of Bruce's brain. His one eye skims
each gaudy costume like a hummingbird
cracked-out on blooms.
The music stops. Rusted antlers
twist from his skull and tangle in a truss
of lights as he jigs across the deck
in concrete shoes, wondering where
to put his concrete cock. His heart spills
over like a vat of pulp. Pining for a lover,
he sees his own face in the wavering water—
a system of fleshy vents shuttling cold air in,
warm out. Through these elaborate channels
seeps the secret police's poison gas.

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Copyright © 2019 Mark Neely All rights reserved
from The Louisville Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission