Hadn't thought of Ed Gein since adolescence, the old pulp magazine days.
Let me just add a bit to this. All dark humor aside, the poem makes no sense unless one knows who this Ed Gein is/was. I remember him from childhood, it seems, when his story began showing up in those old pulp magazines so avidly read by the hoi polloi of the times--me among them.
He was one of those psychological outliers who fascinated by the bizarre fetishes and act-outs of his crimes. His trophies you allude to were his memory intensifiers, whereas your "out-there-ness" was/is confined to memories, manufactured or otherwise.
And then the sudden twist where the question is thrust into the reader's face: where are you in relation to this?
Is there something you want to tell us my twin, you sure there's no jars, boxes, belts or anything that need handing over? 🤣
Okay gallows humour over, please don't cancel me 👀
This is actually a fantastic little gem, I mean it's grim af because Ed Gein and all, however, I was thrilled on the way you turned this around and not many people could do that about a real life person who committed heinous crimes against humanity, memory is one weird bastard that can be amazing or an absolute nightmare, it makes you consider how much our skin consumes and takes on as we keep moving through life.
This one really left a lot to imagine and ponder about, if nobody else is sitting back on this one ....nerr at them 😜