You black-breathed ones, you coroners of taste. Ring me again at 5 in the morning and you’ll know me for worse. Paint-smeared, you stencilers, you self-imposers imposing yourselves on my breast, blubbering of goddesses and jeweled necks—break yours straining to have mine. Little chickens pecking the dirt you’ve had morsels enough. Salarymen, you daddy men, men of drink and belt: I am not fat, or skinny, for you.