A poncho made of a bunch of plastic bags of old dog shit.
A fake-fur trimmed parka I found in a vacant lot, a burnt wig and spandex crusted with old ranch dressing.
Infinitesimally small buttons that I have no idea what-all they promote or rail against. "Apartheid?" Yeah! I love them! This one's just a fist. For fisting?
Boots with old dildos for laces.
My own hair, which I have beaten to a chipped and flaking consistently and painted a defiant rainbow of black, ash-color, soot-color and old-gum-disease-color.
A rugby shirt made out of rejection letters from shitty zines that have become squalid with mosh-pit sweat and the offal of numerous spider-bites.
Idiosyncratic glasses like Lisa Loeb used to wear, but the lenses are rotted ham coldcuts.
The encouragement of my overindulgent mother, inside, like this little light of mine, which I'm gonna let it shine. And some old, destroyed camouflaged chucks that Ben Weasel wiped his semen on.
A beard that looks like a small dog someone crushed and glued to my mouth and neck. Smell it when we kiss!
A bunch of surface-piercings tied together so I can go all primal and suspend my self from the ceiling and I swallowed a bunch of Dubble Bubble and dime bags and axioms carved into leather scraps and y'all can hit me with yer Louisville Sluggers until I pop open and gush that shit all over and then it's happy fifth birthday Adam, from the punx.
My own urine, on my ripped pants and like a black vest soaked with a thousand thrown beers and they're all obscure, bargain-basement lagers with industrial names like Cuyahoga, Erie Canal Water, or Steel Beam.
My own smell, which is rife with nutmeg because all I eat are vegan blondies. But don't worry, 'cause it's also gross b.o.
Alcoholism, but I'm carrying a book, so it's less that I'm an alcoholic and more that I'm smart.
An ammo belt made from used syringes, a corset made of saw blades and blood-flecked Kerropi socks.
A bunch of frayed caveman bike fashion because I love bikes and my bike and my bike is a fixie and fuck that bridge and I can't decide if I'm a hobo or fanciful and all the fucking songs I like will be about bicycles. All of them.
Some serious raver shit because I thought it was a rave.
I dressed like Lady Gaga because I am awful.
Tears streaking the dirt on my face because life is pretty hard right now.
Nothing, because it was a naked show.
