(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