around my vesigial
heads. These wings
are not so much for flying
as they are surrendering.
A beak, lobster claws,
an inverted cross to festoon
what must be a kind of appendix
for the brain.
Where my heart should be
just peers out
my stupid face; time
has not been kind, but sees
fit to preserve my winged
shoes as if I could
do a dance with this bestiary
dumped on top like
an object correlative
for everything I've ever
suffered at the hands of those
kinder, gentler gods. Please
tell me my knees at least
are pleasing. My chin
recedes but my beard, long
& lush, is woven of tendrils
I've carefully tended. We are all
spared the sight of my distended,
syphilitic genitals because
they don't exist: a joke
that can last only a single
generation, I'm a hideous beast
who can't go fuck himself
no matter how many times
you've demanded it.
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