I was born under carpenter limbs,
Babbling under canopies like a wound-up locomotive.
My heart was born with two parts glass, 300 parts cocaine,
So my blood screams indecisiveness and turns in every which way when I sleep.
Life begins at 15, and mine has been nothing more than a clip-art programme.
I gave birth to a nearly 2-year-old blessing that died under its own weight.
I crack my ribs exclusively for “show me more!” girls,
Who toss love around like a used pair of wrinkling cells.
Their skulls are clicking under the pressure of a two-ounce drum,
Attuned to the beats that my strings and guitars give out.
My fans demand sexuality, “yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah!”
And my agent uses kaleidoscope tongues to make crowds of lambs
Sway and swoon under the palm-tree-breeze.
Most importantly, my last thoughts as a one-year-young adult
Are drowned by the clicks of cameras and the draw of silicone and plastic
Buried in someone else’s skin, or better yet, purse.
Hello, my name is Cedric.
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