The Gargoyle Kiosk Poem by Richard George

I scrunch my first travesty on the reflex:
a block of four Tartar basilisks.

Take Two: merely Bulgarian Secret Service.
I cut my losses.

But my eyes are aquamarine, not mud-brown.
I am not in need, as far as I know, of a liver transplant.
I have even been told I have a delightful smile.

I reclaim myself
in a paparazzo CD, tousle-
blurred, pushing a boat
in the bath of sorrows, but me.