名人诗歌|About Face

I keep my blood tucked in.

I won't be mortified¹

by what I drive or the flaccid

vivacity^{2 of my last dinner party.}

I take my cue from statues posing only

in their shoulder pads of snow： all January

you can see them working on their granite^{3 tans.}

That I woke at an ungainly hour，

stripped of the merchandise that clothed me，

distilled^{4 to pure suchness，}

means not enough to anyone for me

to confess. I do not suffer

from the excess of taste

that spells embarrassment^5：

mothers who find their kids unseemly

in their condom earrings^6，

girls cringing^{7 to think}

they could be frumpish as their mothers.

Though the late nonerotic Elvis

in his studded gut^{8 of jumpsuit}

made everybody squeamish， I admit.

Rule one： the King must not elicit^{9 pity.}

Was the audience afraid of being tainted¹⁰

this might rub off on me

or were theysurrendering

what a femme wordfeeling

solicitousglimpsing their fragility

in his reversible purples

and unwholesome goldish chains？

At least embarrassment is not an imitation.

It's intimacy^{11 for beginners，}

the orgasm no one cares to fake.

I almost admire it. I almost wrote despise.