DISMANTLING YOU, MY YOUTH

I scroll. Over my screen rolls “Know thyself,”
or “Nothing,” it says “GAME OVER,” says
that war is best controlled with a stick,
a finger, a stick, I stick to my stick.
Lead me through the soft and hard facts.
“It closed on you.” Now, I must chop,
hack, pick. How to crush the boss?
How to crush the mountain without flattening it?
The fight is uneven. At every checkpoint I must
choose to have my head cut off or my legs or be stretch
out of the joints. I laugh. This world
is a kindergarten. But now, no!
My own cute youth picture, my geminoid,
how I wanted to know you, machine,
I learned everything about programming.
Now I can't hide you in my closet anymore.
Now they’re coming to pick you up. Now
you’re to be dismantled, recycled, transformed
into elementals and metals again, cast
in another's image, while I sit here
in the armchair sobbing. Now, the white bots beep
“Good morning” with a laser beam, and I’m enlightened.
Oh, bright abyme! Now I want to rise and step out
into the marsh. The mosquitos! I should’ve sent you,
sweet geminoid, but you no longer work. Like me
you are ready for the heap. I will also be recycled
for mushrooms and rot eat me. A stream
washes my bones clean. I'm also gone
in a couple of hours.