from (C)OVID'S METAMORPHOSIS, Book the Third

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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from (C)OVID'S METAMORPHOSIS, Book the Fifth

Calliope sings: Persephone's fate It's too late to question the logic of curses, to second guess why some birds deserve h...