Thursday, April 23, 2009

Dress-up

My wardrobe is a rack of symbols.
They say that I am a naked person.
A sensitive young man with water-
Wings for shoulder blades and shaky wrists
Wanted to map my defects, there were so many.

They’re not real. Le Jennifer is not real. My skin
Is splotched with brown dried out puddles. Excuse
Me. They’re not real. I dress into my symbols.
The red ones are lusty; the yellow are genuine.

At the teenage dance I fell into the drink
Table. A sensitive young man with rodent
Teeth and pinky rings said there is something
Wrong with my skin. Don’t worry. It’s not real.

Nakedness is embarrassment. The angel is pale
Because it is mine. It’s not real. Le Jennifer walks
With the lepers on the island of eternal clothing.
We are lusty and slick in our symbols, under the pale
Watchful sun. Le Jennifer is honest in the bath.

She’s naked. A sensitive young man with greasy curls
And a penis like a flimsy harmonica asked if I was
Uninterested. Yes, I said. Yes and no. What’s the matter?
You’re not real.

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