Doctor Doom

Doom. Live on YouTube. Gucci-suited,
telling the fans they’re what matters
again. You’re done, the hotel’s sent up
the wrong ice & you level the building.
It’s jut beautiful, you share with Time,
what pain & misunderstandings teach us.

Everyone wants a piece of you. They love
your Latverian trill, they love the iron mask.
You get DOOM inked on your knuckles.
From one angle it looks like DOOR.
A photo goes viral - KNOB on your other hand.
Doctor Knob! A small boy yells & yells.  

You torched him in self-defence you find
yourself briefing a global press conference.

A black week. Blank about status updates
you charge a flunky to post for you
then fret he’ll make basic spelling gaffes.
Half the responses are phone numbers.
The rest want to know if you’re bulletproof.
You’re not bulletproof. You’ve had some work done

& afraid to go out rattle round the empty castle
on rollerblades. You’re a prisoner of fame.
You hate the fans. All the time you burn
to confess you’re not a qualified doctor.