But here’s a reward for your patience: a poem about the latest EXO comeback, in the style of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl.
I saw the best dancers of a generation destroyed by a Wolf.
Exo, born from the roots and the branches of a mystical tree.
The voice of a poor-man’s Morgan Freeman, a mystical, senseless midwife.
Exo. Separated or together? Awaited
Exo. Beloved Exo. Exo-obsessed fans: Ee. Ex. Oh. Kay. And Em.
The cacophony of Howling.
Moloch! Wolf is freedom not Moloch!
Exo. Not Moloch! Awaited. Beloved.
No more waiting.
They who were separated from the fans by walls, separated by time, separated by meridians
They now return.
They and their comeback are here. No more howling. No more wolf.
Moloch steps back. No more weaving, Penelope-like.
They are here at last, Riding from Gangnam to Inchon to Shanghai and back, overdosed on love of the fans.
They have returned: Exo.
The syringe, the cough syrup bottle of sweet, saccharine love of the fans
Who obsess and await on all continents.
They have come back.
Your turn: you listen to them, you follow them on Instagram, couple them, fight over them
Exo: your overdose.