You are the person I am dressing up as.
You are the picture on the website
the character onscreen
the person, as real as I am,
who sends my messages.
You are full of pieces of everyone.
You are awake at 4am
talking intensely into a mobile phone
in a bar somewhere in America.
Then you are on your private broomstick,
beaming yourself home and catching a nap;
having breakfast, just
like anyone does, but later;
out in the streets, clattering and prancing,
gathering your pieces of everyone
taking them back to your secret cauldron
mixing them, making chequered magic
in your stainless-steel kitchen
in your weird old house
with paintings by Dali and murals of yourself
in your big black hat and boots and cloak
with beat poets and musos and lamas and prophets
and incense and alcohol hangin’ in the air
because you are the person I am dressing up as.