I’m 34 tomorrow and in the absence of a miracle
I’m not going to be a Jesus. Mozart played in front
of an Empress, Maria Theresa, in Vienna before
I’d left St. George’s. Picasso made a truthful painting
of his father while I was using pencils to draw Godzilla

I had hopes of becoming a mutant, my brain waves
causing mishaps but whatever happened to my enemies
was almost certainly a coincidence. I was watched by
football scouts occasionally, but never asked
to sign anything. I got caught shop-lifting once

in former Yugoslavia

Women seemed to like me

I could unhook a back-fastening brassiere
with just two fingers, but that doesn’t make me
Rudolf Valentino. My nose is bleeding
from too much bathtub sulphate, taken
off a mirror made from polished metal

All that’s left is poetry
Stephen Taylor
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