Tra
Three Metamorphic Sonnets with Horns
i. Self-Portrait as Satyr
Well, one weekend, I gave myself horns
and pointed ears; upon the chin
the goatish curl of a satyr or a faun.
The canvas mirrored me as Pan.
- Portrait of the Artist as Devil -
Ah, the sheer humanity of the man.
Varnished the thing, had it framed,
stuck on the wall like a disreputable ancestor.
Toyed with the idea of a forebear�s name,
some patronymic for the music my head had heard:
a kind of meme in that background beat deforming words
back-engineered to genes I�d satyrized, defaced:
Please allow me to introduce myself,
I�m a man of wealth and taste ...
ii. Phrenology
I am my own masterpiece - long surpassed
my prentice work in steroids and tattoos;
botox, collagen; lips bee-stung; ribs removed.
Meanwhile, nature sets dilemmas on my brows.
�You need your bumps felt, you do,�
my old gran said and I guess it�s true.
Feel here, where skin is stretched,
these puckers, bumps. Look XXX!
- these little white-knuckled stitches,
my surgeon�s missing-you-already kisses.
See how we both signed on the dotted line,
here, on the brow where the past is erased,
where now there�s no more room for frowns.
Here - touch! - where coral knits to bone.
iii. Enigma
The classical world lives on in me,
ancient as bread and circuses.
Forget Linnaeus, his taxonomy�s
a footnote to my metamorphosis.
To classify�s mere pedantry.
You want class? Try Life. Try mixing it. Try hybrid vigour.
I�m not here to be described.
Let�s just say I am Enigma.
I am surf. I am reef. I live Beyond. I thrive Outside.
I make a poem of myself, a satyr: make skin, coral, bone, horn, all rhyme.
I seize the only day I�ve got, and every fucking day�s my prime.
If I�m defined, then let it be by pagan night - nox
est perpetua una dormienda - and I tick the box
marked Other every time.
BACK
Here - touch! - where coral knits to bone.
iii. Enigma
The classical world lives on in me,
ancient as bread and circuses.
Forget Linnaeus, his taxonomy�s
a footnote to my metamorphosis.
To classify�s mere pedantry.
You want class? Try Life. Try mixing it. Try hybrid vigour.
I�m not here to be described.
Let�s just say I am Enigma.
I am surf. I am reef. I live Beyond. I thrive Outside.
I make a poem of myself, a satyr: make skin, coral, bone, horn, all rhyme.
I seize the only day I�ve got, and every fucking day�s my prime.
If I�m defined, then let it be by pagan night - nox
est perpetua una dormienda - and I tick the box
marked Other every time.