The Countess of Instagram

(downstage left) ENTERS LOUDLY: the comfort of a luxury hotel lobby

An ego reflects iridescent 
in the gilt, its body rolls laterally 
to favor high value angles. 

She is selling lips: shaved, parted,
a diastema swollen with cocaine.
Her breaths a brachycephalic dog

waking from a nightmare
of a perpetual moan heard
only by bitcoin johns.

(center) MALE INDEX FINGER: strumps across the glass of a tablet looking for Instagram

Mother of pearl veneers
hiss behind the curtain 
of an inflated labrum, generous 

with technology. Evolved 
silicon anxious to be 
found by a future archaeologist

in a potter’s field 
of swaying daisies, afflicted 
by their immortality.

(left/offstage) OPEN WINDOW: centered, a shellac glossa automaton plays Billie Eilish

A baritone bullhorn scatters Rumi’s
wisdom, asinine yet unworthy
of Pinocchio’s pleasure island.

A spirituality of scented candles 
recasts drug dealers as white shamans 
pushing gear she will not buy 

but readily use to cultivate a wit
edited into a skin tone trend
of the latest pantone standard.

(apron) NOILE SILK GRAND DRAPE: the stranded protagonist wears proscenium as tiara

A horned gait fawns a litter of
struts born with old age 
embroidered driftwood replicates

faster than shipwrecks, tik-toking
into an anachronism
as momentous as a male orgasm.

Lights dim out of charity 
to leave her later years devoid 
of reflections, veiled in a penumbra 

of hyaluronic acid. The warble of 
an extinct bird is preserved:
unknown in life, acknowledged in flesh.