It begins with an act,
putting a lamp in a cabinet,
     fire in a basket, seed
in your hand, then fingering into
     a womb your come, since you
can’t stand cunts, and think of another
     man’s junk whenever you
enter her, never abandoning
     all hope, knocking closed hell’s
door only after you pull out hard,
     unafraid to perform
for the world your conjugal duty,
     a player whose bitten


parts smile only slightly, terrified
     almost entirely of
his life’s tragicomedy, turning
     into a fantasy
tricky splinters of disinterest
     in those rockstarlets with
their strap-on guitars and their leather
     panties, making of these
shitty situations drops of pearls
     mimicking envious
oysters, normalcy a costume you
     slip on as you slip out
of dull suburban reality,


     mulling over city
noise, arch-homonculus
     conjuring for troubled
boys words they relish, rich confessions
     of actual filth, truth
they relentlessly use to flavour
     the blandness of their own
bored, boring, and impoverished minds,
     the living of a lie
no more than vicarious birthing,
     a cock’s growing inside
another person a version blind
     readers riot over.