Song of Myself by Moxy Casimir
Or, the adventures of the frozen embryo
I’m in the double-walled waiting room for a womb
on a micro-polar generic afternoon
the air folds its ghostly fingers with the cold
it grasps at nothing, aka me, there’s nothing much to hold
I’m very young but my young is very, very old
kipping in the company of both ancient and modern winters
spelling ETERNITY with a slew of icy splinters
hoping to arrive after some annunciation
following a decade of brusque uterine rejection
they’ll call me implant but that’s a misconception
rather ubermadchen-ubermenschen
ker-pow-ering through a neat c section
ah, if I’m born, whose parting breath will I breathe first
whose milk of human kindness start my thirst
I’m very upbeat although staring at the void
a court injunction dictates I’m soon to be destroyed
don’t much fancy being  bio waste
don’t want hot tongued deletion to have a little taste
toggle  me in the google other-earthly map
easter-egg me on a metaphysical pre-soul app
don’t know what’s circling in my chromosome whirlpool
monsters of kindness or angels that are cruel
I’ll escape disguised as chewed bubble-gum or cheese
make cash from unborn people-trafficking in bags of frozen peas
twirl my umbilicus like a boomboom-bah bull-roarer
wear my placenta full tilt like a cocked fedora
hook up with liberated cryonic human heads
propped by their neck stumps on their pedestal deathbeds
they’ll grant me external hard drive memory
to make a fuller, longer, chorused song of me
in fact
I’d free all ice capped bonces and go tete a tete
and make myself a fast sloe, never frozen internet
oh heritage, I am my own
a human thing as yet unsown