I FEEL LIKE TWO FAT MEN fighting in a culvert.
Hose me down, fetch emetics! I need to be cleansed.
Pull an old shirt out of the wardrobe, say to yourself
"I'll never wear this again," then don it just to spite yourself.
That’s the sort of thing you do!

Terror descends again, as sure as nightfall
in which ghosts are slightly translucent lies
searching for a believer. They whisper: "Imagine,
one day no-one will drink tea,"
but the mirror isn’t dirty, this world is.

Reality hath bad sound quality, and
as I conjure the relevant footnotes that lie in the wavelengths
we cannot hear, cannot see, cannot feel,
in waggle-dance subtexts, misaligned Xeroxes,
I feel like an only Gog.

Transsexuals are people who found one puberty
not traumatic enough. Racists are evil
because they restrict their own customer base.
"That's not a synth, it's a kazoo,
are you trying to out-subgenre me?"

Feel my abstraction; it is palpable.
My pink wit may seem meager but remember;
9/10ths of it is antimatter. The voices state:
"At home, when white people can’t hear them,
they all speak the Queen's English and chuckle at you."

Gods are ideas with ideas of their own:
"Either the chorus are part of me, in which case I am a god
or they are not, but then I'm mortal." Which is worse?
My heartbeast may control that music and I can't work out if it wants
to leap out of me or wants me to leap into itself.

But why turn the rib into a woman when, with it removed,
Adam could happily suck himself off?
I take no pleasure in my perversions apart from
the satisfaction of knowing I'm a pervert.
Does that make me a pervert, or not at all?

Previously published in Germline.