I'm a lamb, a baby's
passed gas, a cock

like a fish
holding its head

out of water,
eyes

of a pregnant cat,
shirtless with suspenders

clipped to briefs,
I've drawn a circle

around myself.
I'll try to make

my face laugh: I eat
wax fruit

because I never
quite love what I love.

So, I don't go into town          
very often anymore—

instead it's the ballgame
on TV, trying

to meditate panic
flat, or fucking

anyway
someone who licks

my face away, half
or twice my age

I already knew
I didn't want.

__

Pre-, peri- and post-cursor consumption, re: the above poem: Ending of a relationship, viewing of [Naji Abu Nowar's] Jordanian Bedouin film, [Theeb], and the eponymous documentary, [Eva Hesse] about the groundbreaking “sculptor,” listening to [Born Against]'s indelible ["Nine Years Later,"] reading [Laura Sims]'s [Staying Alive], and [Jean Genet]'s [The Thief's Journal].