Narcissus pseudonarcissus

He names his guitar Sophocles and plays
it with neoprene gloves, two sizes too large,
marker caps glued into the fingers' tips,
making ten sharp points, like ten thick picks.
Onstage he shakes his hips like a grandfather
clock on speed; ribcage out at angles, pointing
away from the heart. He plucks, strums,
screeches, living to make a noise he calls
psychedelic junkie rhythms—
as if the word music invites critique.
He eyes teenage girls after his shows,
takes them to his dressing room—
not for sex, but for praise. Validation
and masturbation are the only things
that get him off.
            He leaves fresh daffodils
by his mirror, lights a candle, then performs
a quick set. Waits for the stomp of an encore
that never calls. Thinks himself a pretty Iggy Pop,
a punk prince, but his talent is just his presence:
unflappable ego mistaken for fact. He falls asleep
by his pristine mirror, watches his face
grow fuzzy until it disappears, keeps
it locked in his head, in his dreams. A flower-
framed image stamped on a pane of glass.