Soon I'll be 23 and will be aging
in an inverse coherence
to my monetary compensation.

My fish is looking
for a way out the top
of a snickering
nimbus.

He won't discover the knob
or the sun.

We've all got lids.

There is a moderate vibration in the black square of my loins.

I was going to talk about lions,
but realized I have this technology,
so forget lions,
the people desire
loins.

Of course I'm bisexual,
what else can you do these days
but wait for the creme
to expire?

I'd prefer to swim butterfly
all the way
to Nova Scotia or
since I'm trying to get
with the times,
a small flat in Montreal.

I wear hats sideways and gush forth
about the paint on your lips
to any and all
listeners.

I have never been a successful member of a nuclear family.

Pipes rattle in my walls
as Scandinavia accepts my poetry
for an unknown publication
to appear
at an undisclosed date.

I am sending letters to friends regarding imaginary wombs.

They feign interest but are wondering
from what barrel
they have chosen their acquaintances.

His work has appeared
at night time
with a meat hook
swinging
from its left
thumb.

Recently I stood still, pressed against the glass of a wavering sanity.

I wrote overtures to friends in lined notebooks.

I'm not sure, they read, if I've lost or gained but in any event
this will require funds.

They shot arrows back in my direction, festering with question marks
and diseased eyebrows.

Moving on, I must beg upon the streets,
a Klimt with cardboard, I am...

Do not bring her around to this experimental but symphonic event,
she is mine and I wish to lock my doors
this evening.