Anton Semenov

A rage both impossible and irresolute

I have no credence to my favor

No leniency in which to stash my fangs

I am wronged by my own wrongness

A hypochondriac devoted to anomaly

A portrait for each asylum, a zero, a space

Essential to calculation but itself meager


My guilt is not simply for show

It is an occupation by which I rend

My heart as if it were a hymen

In the incidentals of a precocious terror

I am a paper moon cast in admonishment

A one-dimensional puppet leaping

From mirror to mirror in search of a face,

A visage less pained to occupy my vanity