June 1st, 2010


Another TWINS poem

Cheek implants, tuck the chin, reduce the brow
- they go in through the temple, shave the bone
above the orbit. Telling surgeons how
precisely you must match; all stitches sewn

the same and every cut, except for when
small differences must go. The little bump
where you half-broke your nose. You count to ten
hold hands, and sleep. And when you wake your rump

is carved to curvy. So is hers. They make
even your labia the same, so neat
they even taste the same. For beauty's sake
so many cuts. Then one night, in the street,

some bitch slashes your face. And in a week
your sister wears the same scar on her cheek.


My memories of the twins aren't clear. A haze
Of dope smoke. A hotel room where we sat
passing a joint and drinking coke. We'd graze
on day-old pizza, meat-ball subs, and chat

about the cute boy who'd brought round the weed
and how his chin fluff felt when he gave head.
Some guy was keeping them. Their every need
was taken care of, so they stayed in bed

and had friends round, and you became their friend
by going round and smoking. I went there
with Tiffany; I think they'd sometimes send
her out to bring new blood. They'd brush their hair

for hours, happy. And I think that this
was Paradise for them, unending bliss.