The spinning bowtie was a knockout success.
Dogs would lope around with me, faithful
as hair, wet-eyed with dunderheaded awe.
Humans were even better. At parties
I made a name for myself hypnotising
the hostess, then moulding her like drunk putty,
sculpting her perhaps into some daft tableau,
her arms thrown dramatically back,
fingers splayed, jaw locked in a scowl.
Guests would gather round, lifting
their phones to take snaps, the way
we used to lift our passports
to border guards,
another favourite target of mine.
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