Oscillating Fan-Boy

Your oscillating fan who’s got you in his scan

blows your door closed the moment that he can

to go flipping your smooth hair across.

But before you turn my heat off—pouring out the seams…

get to know this mean boy with the skateboard from your road

who goes unreached by the love of any fan

when he’s coming over soon,

after sitting in heat at his breakfast noon.

For this broken-in boy’s been climbing on ladder rungs

and is shouting out to you from the roadside

and at the top of his lungs.

But your oscillating fan just looks the other way

sitting by your bedside and keeping me at bay,

but he’s just a hood see, who’s scoring on my loss.

So before you turn my heat off—and ride him in your jeans…

know this boy is clean even if seen throwing up on your green!

But I’m an outcast beyond your window screen,

and you’re this teen’s queen,

and my growth is like a detritus shroom   

thriving on the warmth and shade and vines

when I’m looking up at the window of your room

and waiting for your signs.

Still your oscillating fan who turns the other cheek

is just a loser, or someone rather meek,

a stupid moocher who’s making you get cross.

So before you turn my heat off—to be taunted by sunbeams…

just see the burning flame in this boy’s mouth of shut up steam!

I’ve got poems for you stuck up in my brains

that are making me insane,

and my empty head is running out of games.

So before turning on his blades just feel along my hair

and douse the dirty blonde soul gone up in flames

inside the hole in there.

‘Cause your oscillating fan who turns up in your room

is flat as fuck, and a bore with all his gloom,

getting on you like a patch of slick green moss.

So before you turn my heat off—to go cheering on his teams…

know this boy is sorry for all those old mistakes he made

when he didn’t have a clue, and now all he wants

is to be allowed back up in

that cool cool air of your room with you.

So now that I’ve been sweating on the rocks,

come meet me at your swing set sandbox

and about it we can talk.

But your oscillating fan who drowns out all my sound

keeps you locked in whenever I’m around,

when he’s not so much your lover as your boss.

So before you turn my heat off—to block out all my screams…

know my life is spent in heat and my world’s an un-mowed yard

that's lived without a fan's cool rays of wind

to make it hard these days.

True, if you were pleased you’d not lock your door

to jerks like me who made you war so long…

but if you weren’t doing something wrong

I’d be lying on your floor and

my heat we'd just ignore.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems