a photo collage of you walking away from yourself; a franken-
stein monster that is made from sundry parts of your ex lovers:
a looking glass for your **** psychology; serial monogamy,
like serial killing, that goes out with a "bang"; a recording of
yourself, completely in onomatopoeia; *** tapes, unlike their
VHS cousins, that are only incomprehensible gibberish as, say,
the unprepared student whose first utterance is always "uh";
you, neither, know what you are doing (or just as aptly, who).
DNA that twists parts of you into a knot along with it; e.g., a life-
blood leaving you to hang by your ankle, or maybe asphyxiating
you by noose; a myopia of hindsight, 20/20 vision that says "sike":
you as a polygraph test to self, in a language foreign only in feeling.
solipsistic silos where one flashes either photography or flesh,
as *** is merely the genital expression of Instagram--as if a "like",
an ephemeron that is as successful as it is phony in connecting;
selves ascending to a nihilism of themselves; for conscious is
the top floor of the mind--and this outlook excludes any "insight":
an eye inward, self-incriminating, so that liberation is possible
a subconscious, as if a dissident voice on campus, that is disinvited
in the hysteria of emotional illiteracy and spiritual obliteration;
your mental cavity as a "safe space" from self; you cannot protest
your self, even if culpability is the bedrock of the human condition.
blame that ripples outward, the way water does when you dive in;
waves that goodbye, without so much as a wave, for they merely
roll themselves into a cold shoulder; an azure of depression, blues
that do not gray with time; like U2, you too can find "no line on
the horizon": we are an abridged version of infinity // the end.