Teeth long past repairing

picket a gape, perpetually despairing,

beneath a thousand-yard stare

(as if requisite, bad hair);

Bulbous nose–Satan’s choice!

blame it for the toad-fart voice

(Yes it must be Lucifer;

for what divine engineer

puts a head this heavy on a neck this austere?);

With pock-marked skin

and gap-toothed grin

(granted, a not-bad chin):

one mediocre specimen!

His malformed charm,

his fellowship too,

draw only the alarm

such desperate figures are due;

(silence insulates he from you)

And through that silence he says:

alive, still, no less than you…

Self-Portrait, August 2o11

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