Saturday Night

Self-server uploaded
into a shoot-'em-up world
of ogres, escaped demons,
missed class this month...
for the third time

sixteen, twenty-six, thirty-six hour
dance passed,
wordless, in the blink
of a square-eyed bitch-box

maggots writhed
in garbage by the bed
and became the flies
around his head,
the scale tilted, lowered

eyes fried like motherboards
during the all-night gigabyte
lock-in, locked-up self-server
paused long enough to notice
the fast-food-wrapper carpet

and bite into the apple
of codependant roller coasters,
unzipping to the message
of teenage beauty
or middle-age lies.

Author's Note: I started this poem in December. It's done now.