I don’t want to be a creature who says
the wrong thing when someone’s pet is dying.
Condemned to a life of big feet, misshaping
high-heeled pumps. That’s not what Michelangelo
was after. When that soft duo ate the fruit of knowledge,
we got stuck despairing at an unplucked nipple hair
and stopping and fumbling to put on a condom.
Who wants that? A creature who mumbles and
slumps, who writes in clichés, who laughs at the wrong
spot, can’t understand post-modern theory,
forgets names, doesn’t photograph well, tries and fails,
what sort of creature is this?
Writer, editor, translator