Time for tenderness

When I awoke I lay tied to a foreign bed.
Inside a house sown out of human flesh.
A palace of skin graft architecture.
Oh desolation! I can't stand to fuck these walls.
Desolation! I can't stand to suck these halls.
But how do I sleep when the skin I stroke
underneath the sheets is mannequin plastique?
And I wonder where the girl who slept beside me has gone.
When the faces in the photos stare with glass eyed mystique
Tick, tick, tick, tock I watch the clock for tenderness.