My hustler is a plastic whore
Waits on the couch for night to fall,
Anticipates the morning flesh
The need, the rush, the sticky mess.
My cowboy lives on campbells soup
And for a treat an oxo cube,
His p-stained silks I sell as prints;
They sell real well the more they stink.
My camera films him while he sleeps;
His portrait fills the screen-filled wall.
I watch the people watching watch
His eyelids dance to unseen dreams.
My killer wants her fifteen minutes,
She doesn't like to be unnamed.
A voice from fame's low altar says,
"This moment shall be infinite."
My body, bloodied, bullet torn,
Waits on the floor for death to call;
Anticipates the mourning flesh,
the loss of touch, taste, sound and stench.
My sight, the light undimmed caressed;
My star unset maintained its rise.
My life reborn the heavens blessed;
The moon, the sun, became my eyes.
My wigs, my scars, my pallid hues,
My small editions, mass produced;
Judge with grace my worldly views
And wave by buying my snakeskin shoes.
A little bit of Turkish: Yiğit (brave, hero, stalwart)
Her yiğidin bir yoğurt yiyişi vardır.
Each brave eats yoghurt in his own way.