Wo Chan

Splayed and splendid
                                       the pastel explosion
now lie limp
                                       and loveless across
my unmade mattress.
                                       Memories of markets
I journeyed dreamfully
                                       to be gypped by Virginian
hawkers, in hopes
                                       of having the most hideous,
one day heavenly,
                                       digest of dissonant
sweaters. Terrible
                                       and untamed turtlenecks:
one royal red
                                       and vermilion riveted,
the neck secured
                                       by a clunky, clover
brooch. And at broad,
                                       a brusque, bronze
holiday jumper,
                                       both horrible and healthy,
reprobate with reindeer,
                                       the reams of retro,
fitted garbs, all garnished,
                                       gay and good.
Periwinkle and peach
                                       cardigan, perky
and exuberant dress,
                                       for the exiled and exempt.
For that life,
                                       I love. Lo,
could I unkindle
                                       my delight in kitsch
I wouldn't. Weirdness,
                                       wonderstrike me!
How else do I speak
                                       to my sad and surreal
self?