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Enigma’s horns are implanted deep into his skull. They are made of coral, which is recognised by the body as similar to bone. Each year he has progressively larger coral implants because it is taking time for the skin to stretch. He only gave up on his dream of having jewelled eyebrows embedded into his face when doctors told him forcefully that having transdermal implants near hair follicles was extremely dangerous. Johann Han, The Guardian, 11 March 2002.

i. Self-Portrait as Satyr

Well, one weekend, I gave myself horns
and pointed ears; upon the chin
the goatish curl of a satyr or faun.

The canvas mirrored me as Pan.
– Portrait of the Artist as Devil –
Ah, the sheer humanity of the man.

Varnished the thing, had it framed,
stuck on the wall like a disreputable ancestor.
Toyed with the idea of a forebear’s name,

some patronymic for the music my head had heard:
a kind of meme in that background beat deforming words

back-engineered to genes I’d satyrized, defaced:
Please allow me to introduce myself,
I’m a man of wealth and taste…

ii. Phrenology

I am my own masterpiece – long surpassed
my prentice work in steroids and tattoos;
botox, collagen; lips bee-stung; ribs removed.

Meanwhile, nature sets dilemmas on my brows.
“You need your bumps felt, you do,”
my old gran said and I guess it’s true.

Feel here, where skin is stretched,
these puckers, bumps. Look XXX!
– these little white-knuckled stitches,

my surgeon’s missing-you-already kisses.
See how we both signed on the dotted line,
here, on the brow where the past is erased,

where now there’s no more room for frowns.
Here – touch! – where coral knits to bone.

iii. Enigma

The classical world lives on in me,
ancient as bread and circuses.
Forget Linnaeus, his taxonomy’s
a footnote to my metamorphosis.
To classify’s mere pedantry.

You want class? Try Life. Try mixing it. Try hybrid vigour.
I’m not here to be described.
Let’s just say I am Enigma.
I am surf. I am reef. I live Beyond. I thrive Outside.

I make a poem of myself, a satyr: make skin, coral, bone, horn, all
                                                                                       rhyme.
I seize the only day I’ve got, and every fucking day’s my prime.
If I’m defined, then let it be by pagan night – nox
est perpetua una dormienda – and I tick the box
marked Other every time.