Stars.

I haven’t
got
an astrological
sign.

I was born in
a hospital;
although I might
have been born
under a rock.

The surgeon’s prick
probably exerted
more influence over me
than Vega
or Alpha Centauri
or Orion
or Cassiopeia
or any other
points of light
of choice –

perhaps that’s why
I feel at home
in the house
of vipers.

I’m sure Betelgeuse
and Proxima Centauri
are just aching
for your
misplaced affection.

The stars
whisper
their shifting positions
and taunt those
who undermine their beauty
with fickle,
fallacious interpretations.

There are no cherubs,
or houses of personality
for these nitwits to
feel at home in:

so choose your
bullshit quick-sharp
(and soon enough
the stink will be
like second nature).