Uncanny Valley Boy

Beta, come wax prophetic with me.
Rest your rump, boy, by your old giving tree.
Stumped, I ponder the forespoken monster at the end of this book of yours...
And you, for a future, sold your whole fortune
to live neutered, blissfully and orphaned.
Upon purchase of a queen's ship, earth right now your tourist store...

But distracted by your brother's tantrums,
we couldn't imagine your mail order cult,
till they called, suspecting you of huffing,
then we caught you stuffing twenties in an envelope...
So do you believe your "hamartia" now?

Oh, bastard ingrate! Some nights you wake,
climb and survey the houses you've betrayed.
Scattered your beans over suburbia...

Mowed down by the tides, and inundated under in unfair fights,
you made a bunker that shuts airtight to seal out their floods.
But then, my little prince, safe on your tiny planet where none else fit,
you finally granted their nutshells are rigged, and healed round your grudge...

Now suddenly dressed to play, you drowned your stutter,
smugly prepped to haze the new latecomers.
This scheming crackpot vowed to clean the jackpot out this time around...

But have you heard, my beloved Rama king, the testifiers' lore?
A nation paused to watch you fail your Sita on repeat for evermore!
Did you find a rival in the goddess you once sought as prize--
your idol who riled you when you saw that you two were tied?

With bride you bridled in this perfect duel match,
and so one night you chalked the sidewalks slurring Valmiki's chant.
When wakened from the siren, you found spelled out in dead ants: ____...

No well worn sari could sway you from a fairer marathon!
Your dulling gold now gone...
Stubborn harpies can't draw this contest to be one!
...traded in for the trophy blondes.

Through tatters of sky, their sun tinkles light
in needling chimes that weave through the vines,
cast on your peons, old and subservient.

Oh child of mine, what's left of what these faces you flip override,
and all these pages you've ripped from your spine to find a cleared path
in life's unbearable maze? Then once for all to render it all fail-safe,
your thoughts surrendered for Bobtail's sake, to five-year plans.

Now son, before you embark on your great bildungsroman,
shouldn't you first be sure you've finally become someone?

Rama, Rama, Rama...

...Maranatha!

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