For months I have measured your dimension.
You fit perfectly under my skin,
under my wig,
inside my right ventricle,
inside my generous belly house.
You don't fit in my bed:
too tall or
too long for
my seed shell.

First, I thought: let’s cut off his head!
Non! Non, Dieu…
The head c'est le chef d'oeuvre!
The only self-portrait of Modigliani
with Jeanne Hébuterne reflection in a mirror,
in the sheet background.
Mais non! C’est pas possible…
I need his face to wrap my gifts for Halloween!

Cut away his toes with this sassafras spicy file…?!
Why not? I answered to my question with a rhetoric question.
He could sleep without toes.
A bed is good for
sleeping,
A testicle for
milk,
A breast for
touching,
gently,
with the wing tip,
the soft and white nipple until it becomes
as firm as a ruby shiver.

Toes?
Testicles?
Wings?
Nipples?

Yeah...! The world is upside-down, monsieur.
Il tourne from the right to the left.
Or... From left to right?!
I don’t remember.
I lost my memory.
Only my name I remember
and the fact that I don't fit
in my bed either.

Anymore...

I’m sick.
Spring fever…