The Transformation of Echo
Crept out of the mace-heads
of the liriope beside the graveyard
like softbois on the verge
of mansplaining how they never tire
of the loveless riff: lost
in the delay that hides the ancient
complaints beneath waves
distorted beyond
yonder fires. Nobody’s jovial
even when the clubs reopen & blazes
are mistaken for borealis; are you a man
or a bunny? I am sick of the things I say
to myself. I said, I am sick
of the things I say to my sick
self; I am sick I am sick sick sick
of myself. I am sick to death of myself.
The Story of Narcissus
I’m really more of an influencer than a follower,
having sought the approval of prominent
fashionistas but finding myself once again
ogled by the rabble. If only they’d subscribe
to a more lucrative form of fandom,
one which would allow me to quit
having surgeries. I hear they turned that rib
into mobile land mine. Self love
is the only love in the plague time, still
ill with the million-year itch, an algorithm
that brings you your own head
on a silver salver, salivating for thirst
for thumbnails of moonlit nymphs
in the unscrolling river of code
wherein is found an ascii likeness
of my grave face.
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