loneliness the way I, the Chicago Deity of postmortem flesh, do.
Infiltration of sticky, gooey hate part your eyes as they sing a Harpy Song. Flinging shit down on martyrs, cardboard lovers (they are the fucking same)and artistic representations that NO ONE can understand. They smell better than roses, a sonnet
that loves to be obtuse. They take their ports, spread them for us all
and scream like the gates of hell cringe. The Devil Goes In Here is tattooed on taunt flesh
as designated by her hand
the hand of Osiris lost with his Phallus. (Isis ate it
to keep control.) It is too late for them, bitches, orgasms will not influx a heart
when blood is replaced by bile and sawdust. Even as we penetrate
looking for that last inch
to scream that extra decibel
to spill more virgin blood
we remember what it was like to be alive, still feeling the reality of control. Zombiesof technology, the bitches that eat our humanity - take our digits to a hell reserved
for people that create their own fantasy, playing cards with Gibson, Ellis, Ellis and Ellis.
They cheat at cards the way they cheat working
and suckle a fan base too good for us,
too good for their technophilia. Text in a screen
flat as a child splattered over a street
but more pixilated and with more realistic color depth - this is worship.
3d cards bought because
wouldn't run without cyberpunk enhancements. I neural graft the circuits
they will respond faster
because I am not as dumb as a machine.
I can take gibberish
and make something more from 1 and 0. 3><C3p71|\|g of course, the elite of them
that take grammar closer to bit depth.
They are the ones fucking zombified human flesh
in chatrooms where there aren’t beds - only my mind
telling you that I am 13 and all the woman
any geriatric would want if he could get his hands off the keyboard.
Standing at the gates of technology, the broken gasping
past of stone and bronze work falling stiller, we are lead by Gargoyles
into a fucked up Irony - where stonework is an antiquated notion
just like Chivalry or riding a bicycle.
One step away from electrocution. Static marvels
stored in keys and mercury units - it is these that altar, the sexual depraved
hoarders of technology. You cannot fuck a computer - yet - and get away with it.
It's like sheep in Texas - Billy-Bob language - silence
only goes as far as a look. Copulation over raw, hot solder -
not the way to go. But loving skin
the way Freud wants to love his mother
is unlike any reactionary stance taken today.
Friction burns, metal, plastic splinters - not erotic.
Cyberpunk is a statement of apocalypse. Lies told to school girls
to keep them from buying MP3 players because that much music prepackaged
is a mousetrap of expectations. It is death
where it is cold and rainy under flat, jaundiced characters.
Even if plugged in, we see the eye socket jacked-off.
This is mankind's disease. When it's too easy to find information
we listen to sound bytes
that spell out D-U-M-B on the TV.
You want to link that?