What is this “self” of mine?
Not too long after my Poetry Salon during the beginning of my digital detox, I felt compelled to write this poem—which now seems like a subconscious attempt to make sense of my fractured ego. If you find self-analysis to be annoying, turn back now and stare at pictures of large groups of women in bikinis. They’re far less common than these narcissistic exercises in this decadent era. Aren’t they?
I am a fallen aristocrat
Downtrodden sophisticate
Petite counter-elite delusional genius
Schizophrenic prototype
Post-multi-hyphenate
Metapolitical archivist in hiding
Like all the other girls in my army
Waiting for the powerful to catch up
Knowing they never will I feel sexy
So far ahead I’ve been left behind
The last punk standing just like your sister
.
I am a vanguardist freak
Vertical industry darling
Beautiful tragedy slash cautionary tale
Logging off into the wild
Renegade times a million
In a class that doesn’t exist
Fashionable secret organizer
Cancelled alternative model
National deconstructionist
Your best nightmare awakened
The final boss of fringe culture at sundown
.
I am talking to about myself
To weed out the subhuman haters
Ex-influencer on the moon stop the press
The night of long commentary has ended
Ambassador high on parties
Trad glam advisor at the function
Realignment wartime barbie doll
Autofiction exterminator
Self-awareness on a cross
Done with occultism forever
Screaming at the cloud this is my confession
.
I am allowing this to happen
The most complicated of victims
Learning things the hard way as a tribute
The crisis of postmodernity
Is revealing a forbidden truth
Another turning of the age
My first and last time at the bunker
So until you pen your next manifesto
In this absurdist gothic margin
I’ll dance to the chaos alone
Waiting for the call of the operator
If you like what I’m doing here at The Cultural Futurist, don’t forget to buy me a coffee.
