Cyber
romance is not intimate,
intimate is not touch.
touch seeks the center of a screen,
a fake fulsome stare,
glow of the ethereal real.
my spine, neck, arms, face
propped and pert as ninepins,
alert as the pixel-pixie simulacrums,
avatars in photons, young and busty,
how they strut,
pandering to orgasms lite.
outside, Earth’s fearful tides
of swift implication,
brute vicissitude, and ignorant threat
rave on.
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