Corpus carnally directed.
Screen fed dream state aesthetically dissected.
Little girl wonders how much of her remains
now the program’s rattlin’ bones, playing old Vlad’s xylophone
resounding in the sepulchre.
Her flesh lies scattered across the pixelated alter.
A banquet in the streets – her blood fills gutters.
Whilst in their homes,
the children poke her puppet corpse on their phones.
– Under the bed now !
I saw someone in the street !
the lights are off !
I hope he didn’t see me !
Cover your head !
I heard on TV that the bombs are going to be dropped on me today.
Men and machines. Silence and screens –
receive and push the meme.
Data dream stream to fill the mind, until the dam breaks and our eyes spill out in torrents that wipe the land clean and toxic.
Bleached; All variation scraped away.
Fields of white in a white sky.
Information flow sped up too fast until we die too fast,
staying as far away from anyone as possible –
each clutching their last treasure, anxiously darting eyes
to search for predators or thieves, content to keep staring into the orb, even though they went blind a long time ago.
All they hear is chattering teeth.
Plug into your new receiver.
Vibratory vomitus inside out believer.
A mirror smashed and suspended.
Microscopic shards reflect what we’ve rejected, but cannot live without. Feed, devour the dream. Everything is exactly as it seems.
Now that feels better doesn’t it ?
Now let the little machines enter your bloodstream,
and take this pill if you feel anything start to happen to you,
and then sit down.