Arbus Moonlights

(DA unreels the peel

For zest)

felt on chin, whiskers wild

blown up to smithereens

(The glass had to cut my hand for me to understand

Perfection does not come from a mirror)

 

‘If you are our kind of orange and

can break the cattle and bough the

house, I shall take photos of you

directly and reap rewards over the

callous’

 

effete in any world

in which inhibition’s giant shape is admired

you’re served blue in any form

with unusual attire, closed off trans-auto-mat

caught through swollen, sick, dead aperture

twin city moonshines as an afternoon delight

 

 

 

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