The Homunculus Speaks from the Bed of the Ovarian Dermoid Cyst

You can call me your little man if it helps you when you think

of me I don’t mind it. Few things I understand such as this

spherical mass which must be my head and I have attempted

an arm though my skeleton is only a crispy shell and I do not

know what it is reaching for there is nothing else here

but the moist bed I am curled upon. My tooth says

I might not look like much of a tooth but I was made

for chewing. My hair says brush me I am tangling

in the greasy spillage of the tissue I lie on

the tongue that speaks for me I ride it like a magic carpet

we are getting bigger and bigger I do not know where

we are going. I am trying to keep myself together. I am

not trying to be so ugly.