Narcissa – Annie Chantraine

Why Does The Doctor Have No Face?

I fetched a taxicab Calloway to old St. James;

the blues were manifesting as more than colour.

Parasympathetic powerlines lurch to a halt,

inertial force snapping sinews and railway ties.


Out I rush in to this PONDSEDGE.

Busting in a high-turnover hospice,

I search every room cuz the hypodermic’s dulled;

gotta do the negotiating my-self.

Everywherething is an amphitheatre,

but the audience is in the pit.

Gunpoint: Where’s Sister Morphine?

“Sister Morphine? Whozat?”

A nurse cools me off with CRT monitor static,

but the radio’s playing boiled blood. Time to go.

“Time to go, buddy.”

A cybernated dik, Narcissus Division, is privy

to the 3D gridspace, on the prowl for me.

No matter-mind. NarcDiv is a field of diks any way

and I’m on a 0D plane cuz the circuit’s in town.

He’s on a neolithic type beat, out of sink.

I’m looking for the heat sync.

I’m looking for what’s on tap.

Tapping the mercury, I skhíz.

I’m already rushing in to the next rosy vie.

That PONDSEDGE? Dealership’s choice;

GODBRAIN decides.



I clip through the wall of R____’s basement

I’ve been herenow before. I’m there in the corner

shamaning out. Tell God I said “Hi”, kid.

“Hi Kid”

Sensorium fucks itself for a little input;

my eyes hand ears jerking off in rainbows all over the room.

Psychedelia is autodidtactauroravisuomasturbation

Whatever bastard said “seeing is believing”

couldn’t even hear them-self say it.

Sense-sation bare to the wire and intensities blind.

Sense-soreum screams white, hot, ’n’ loud,

overloads, overlaps, overflows;

the blues were manifesting as more than colour.

But, even in trancelike anti-narcosis, I’m fiending.

A numbing agent to the info was my score:

a language, a car, some money, a shirt

anything to take the informational burden off me.

Next fix a click away, next click fixing pain.

So. I’m standing in a memory, low resolution.

Icy cold. Encourages audience participation.

GODBRAIN hots me up with Hi-Def visual snow.

The occupational and frontoparental lobes

and the hip-to-campus are sick of it

They’re tearing down this PONDSEDGE.

I’m alone with a dik on my ass.

I skipped the clip and peeled.



PONDSEDGE the only thing that matters herenow.

PONDSEDGE the ultimate Self-via-Other.

PONDSEDGE the Visa®-vis.

PONDSEDGE the Lord’s ship and the BDSM

PONDSEDGE lets tu vois, lets tu exposes.

Finally, an apparatus to see my self.


Oh, fuck off.

I stare unblinking into silvery tékhnē, can’t peel.

We’re all becoming a narcosist.

A Burroughs’ orchid blooms narcissist.

No mastur=dik here, GODBRAIN acephallus.

Leave genitals at the shore.

Why are you crying? You never had say in the matter;

someone else was driving the boat.

No mommydaddy to killfuck,

only a young girl named Simulacra;

only by neglect, only from afar. Fabrics betwist.

There’s never room for Oedipa (Live Maas™!)

Fabrics are sweltering, ass-to-elbows,

no room for mommydaddy any way; no room

for anyone but my self.


Don’t talk back to me, bitch.

I gotta take a walk on the couch.

Declining a recline on the incline,

Sissy fits a boulder up the down ramp.

That ain’t me, mac.

I prostrate myself to a NEW GODBRAIN:

My self.


Icaria the only feedback loopdilooping with Narcsissy.

Interfacing in to your face. Jack on/off.

Jackknife the boat before it’s on the water.

I want to stop feeling others’ pain for my sake,

for my self.


I will hurt you.

Pain, heat, and light bloom in intricate tangles,

everything woven together of the same fabric.

The satins and velvets of the Real rub together and

the blues were manifesting as more than colors.

I gotta squint to focus on a blurring limit.

I can’t feel a thing.


Pond’s Edge

‘pon that green pond’s edge,

Young Narcissa lay.

Glassed smooth surfaces,

skin to write upon.

Thus, pines in pines, she

blooms, interlocked ‘round.

From afar, elle voit.


for Simulacra,

her fair voyeur’s eye,

Young Narcissa lay.