Even at the start,
with that lipstick ink on his arse,
the furrowed crosshatch
patterning of Marylin's lips was copied,
with infinite precision;
a flesh facsimile of flesh.
Later, still before
he knew his precious satellites -
though not before
orbits of uncounted, untrackable women,
around his oh-so-celestial body -
the forearm bulldog
was a morphed abomination
of dog, Churchill,
t-shirt. The cigar brand correct,
with photorealistic smoke, that… flexed.
And each of a dozen more
created for reasons he could list
back in those days
before the forces eased their grip
and he slipped
into satellites and a civilian life.
Now each launch
has a new celebration,
to an Earth centred somewhere
around his groin,
skin stained with an equation's knot,
describing a real circumnavigation.
When he is buried
they will leach back into Earth,
with the reality they try to describe.