Poem: Impostor Impostor Syndrome

by austin beaton

Impostor impostor syndrome

America’s credit cards are confused

and our celebrities keep dying, maybe

at a rate graphed along an illuminati

scatter plotted parallel to the ratio

of machines for chip inserts and those

reading magnetic strips. We’d like that,

think those in my head

who wish for fate and meaningful

capitalism. Why this? Isn’t order

what I just didn’t want? Isn’t it all

random like the internet is

big, like God is big, shiny and ascending

in front, 2D Jesus? Half a lifetime

is experienced by 7 is how memory

structures its bandwidth. Sometimes,

I’m opening as a MacBook,

like when the love is going well

and I’m only hiding sadness about

how I’m going to die

if you don’t first. While the dream

of drone delivery is always almost

happening I’m likely deciding

on all sides of an equation:

do you ever lose that living in a

robot feeling? Is it till death

you’re outside the city

a movie’s referencing,

technology that should’ve been

purchased, the son you could

be, the closest thing

to acceptance wherever the

camera isn’t pointing?

Austin Beaton is maybe sleeping inside a human shaped robot. He woke up and realized he’s in charge of 8 Twitter accounts. So, his poems right now are about the internet of the nervous system. Read another, here.