He is your type.
An archetypal type. Ein
toller tüp.
He is the protagonist,
so too
His white-hot eyes.
His desiccated heart
And capillaries of ash.
He dresses like money.
His James Dean smile
and the
Juiced embolism of his
neck-tie
Straightened with
canonical fingers.
Those claws of
Nosferatu
And that neck of
authority.
In love with his
reflection
The effect is dopple.
Gang.
Her.
His umlaut is cold.
With his Schwietzer
smell
Of electrified
defences,
That lemon juice
mouth’s tone
a ringing telephone
In an
empty
room.
He is your type.
An archetypal type. Ein
toller tüp.
