I might benefit from supplemental testosterone.
My arm is missing a wedge.
My girlfriend had a much-touted abortion.
I’m not emotionally expressive.
Adorno: “He who offers for sale
something unique that no one wants to buy
represents, even against his will,
freedom from exchange.”
I sucked off two bastards.
My lamé purse announces social class.
I use fado as template.
My tattoo is fading.
I asphyxiated Hölderlin in his tower.
Like Fassbinder I died at 37.
Like nature, I am in heat.
I forgot my diegetic name.
I am John Lennon’s lover.
I abhor anachronism.
O glove compartment,
behold the hollowness
of being promised seventy thousand
identically erotic winding sheets.
Call me torpedo boat
or mons veneris.
Only the globe thistle and the roach clip understand
I used to be your rat-voiced
brother, your drub.
The Hegelian pony, our family
carnival’s sure-fire draw,
fails to amend
the gray-shelled turtle’s medicated gloom.