It views things objectively
from above and afar-
thinking incessantly.
It stares in the night
like a frightened kid.
I want to poke it out
of its missing lid.
It spies with nocturnal sight,
sees things that aren't right,
like a lighthouse in the fog,
always searching for symbols,
allegories, aphorisms, narratives
to come sailing in on its beam.
It wearies me when I want to live
with two eyes open
and sometimes shut.
My third eye is stuck in its rut.
It comments on daffodils
as if they came out of Wordsworth's poem
instead of knowing he put them in,
because his third eye was bugging him!
It sees seagulls as freedom;
chirping birds as poets singing;
pink clouds at sunset as smog
heralding climate crisis;
a skinny girl with purple hair
as self-destructive, rings in her nose
as anger at her parents.
Truth and beauty as a rose!
This poem cost thirty dollars to write.
'cause I lost my gloves on the train tonight
blinded by my third eye.
With hands cold, my third eye
makes me feel old,
my two eyes blinded
with satire very unkind.
If only it were situated in my behind.
Daniela Gioseffi