Poetry by aeon ginsberg

waif waif waif waif waif
if you say something enough it becomes meaningless
like something that no one has ever even said before
a new kind of madness that’s special and all your own
the iron maiden might not have ever been used
but the idea of a beautiful woman surrounding you
and piercing your flesh
and ending your life
is as timeless
as any other good idea
one could have
worried waif worried waif worried waif
worried that no one knows enough about me
why would i write a poem about it
when I could create another virtual self
and show you the ways I wish to be surrounded
and how being surrounded will one day kill me
I’ll give you everything if I can see myself
as I think myself is
make a contract with the devil
to take the flesh from my face and make it
into the image of my dysphoria
I’ve lost hours of my life in front of a screen
hours of my life sitting at the edge of the still water
of technologies pool, staring into it;
afraid to dip my fingers against the surface
and what would happen if those fingers could touch back
I’m worried they know too much about me
as i make another virtual self in the image of all my virtual selves
waif wife waif wife waif wife waif wife
if they made a clone of yourself would you fuck it or kill it?
if i had the chance why not both?
you can lead a horse to water
or you can lead it to a mirror instead
if you cover me in enough glass will you stare at me instead?
The issue is I can stand to be enveloped
and the watchful eyes of those at all angles, of all angels
don’t deter my stride or movement
and to feel the cold hand of an unforgiving motion pass
time across my body.
I don’t have it in me to exhale protest at my joys but
eventually they’ll have enough data on the human face
and we won’t be able to make a new virtual self
better than the old self.
The old self might not even be ours.
waif wraith waif wraith waif wraith waif wraith
if you read the terms of the contract
your flesh belongs to the market
and whose invisible hand does it belong to?
if you can read your iteration of the truth
belongs to the state
if you can read,
you should.
i make myself into the image of my virtual self
waif wrath waif wrath waif wrath
a self so imperceptible it disappears in the sun
         a funny thing, since all things disappear on the sun
make a contract with the devil and have it diagnose
a new mental inside you
Narcissus takes a selfie through the AI app
and it’s uploaded into
the smart mirror in their home
in the google glass
it’s in the frames of each digital download
you can’t escape what you trap yourself within
I’ve built a blanket fort around my body
I’m the worlds most comfortable iron maiden victim
If you had a clone of yourself would you fuck it or kill it
or let the clone kill you?
a waif, a wife, a wraith, a wrath
I’m sorry to all the virtual selves I’ve left to die
but I had to
My clones shouldn’t be things but myself
I will not be sorry to cover my body in mercury
and make myself the center of my own panopticon
you’re not in here with me, I’m in here with you
Surrender my flesh to the devil
only to see the version of the truth that never existed
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I worry the world knows too much about me
and I still don’t know enough