‘My new persona helped me to make money,’ says the streamer,
but cruel and petty, unhoped for ideal like a hovercraft shimmers
behind a definition of a chair.
You tarnish the boulevards
with your shrapnel castanets and chucked heels
dancing under the exsanguinated sun, but insufficient,
burnt coat of meaning wages a lost covenant.
You hang out till the last minute then take what’s left.
At home’s the torquemada you thought mistakenly.
The Equality Issue opines to the crepe myrtle.
‘I need superficial to relax’
says the airborne Treasure, drinking up a storm,
as she modded the program again until no frond pecks.
On TV chiselled-by-Praxiteles turns his novel arms.
He was an ornament to the game a muse on the field.
He passed away surrounded by his fame.