they should make a kit for this:

i disrobe, and i never mind the hair
(everywhere).
revving motors get me going,
so i begin the process.

few things are as easy as being your own cosmetologist,
and i look damn good,
like Mackenzie, but way more butch.

i'm going for professional couture
(eleganza administerum):
pointing my eyelashes,
binding my tits,
uncurling my lips...

the only thing that stays the same is my bared sneer.

in the hot mist of abnormal morning
(soothed),
i relish my curves and examine the moss which clings to my chest.
and if you slick my hair back, i look eleven,
and if you slick my hair back, i look eleven,
and if you slick her hair back, she looks like she does this all the time:

at the grocery store,
at the post office,
while spitting a drink into your stupid face,
on the clock.

i take in the last humid blast
(shut off the faucet),
and wipe the mirror clean without looking into it,
except
only for a second,
to check my part,
align my tie,
and head out into the desert looking like i didn't even try.