wayne koestenbaum





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.