Vaporwave Sonnet
The pool, its babbling light in azure rings
flows round about Apollo’s plastic head,
while somewhere far-off Muzak’s® singer sings:
a voice that echoes wealth, a sound long-dead.
No dust hangs here, no dirt or filth or slime
remains within this empty space entombed
beneath uncounted depths of space and time:
a body lacking organs, life consumed.
To write this verse, to string these words in train,
to raise the worthless mall to heights undreamt,
means playing old, discarded, songs again
but slowed and weird, a sad and vain attempt.
As Mammon swells and Nature falls from grace,
our poets fail: confused, they swap their place.