Poetry

In hirsute adolescence 
a narcissist climbs 
the breast and becomes 
a graveyard of moons. 
 
Talking of marginality, 
a hole in the chest 
ejects a secret of peachy skin 
when wind was selling sex. 
 
Most corrupt was me 
always telling truth about the 
warm eggs of chaotic legs 
who will not climb down the street.