a moon in my sky
will you pick it up
or shall I?
..let us be, we're busy marking virtual territories
With pictures and words and worse and worse..sewing pockets into infinite, filling its black hole appetite. Tumbling, stumbling, blogging, flogging, pinned and skinned, Facebook fucked, tweet twat tweet, slap chat flea, and redfuckingedit, and everything else..goddamit.
Fill, fill fill, fill this space, put a fucking picture, mark this, own this, throw some more into the air, claim it.
Everything a thousand times over, each face on a fucking repeat. Every thought heard and heard again, or another selfie, and another selfie as another one. Repeat and repeat, the alternate rat race which needs a new plague, put on a conveyer belt into a photostat machine.
And oh the books, spiked with hipster coffee stains, unread, unclaimed. Adorning libraries and never read, left for beards and premium coffee roasts. Sigh for them.
The touch of paper is better than a glaze eyed scroll. A mess made out of books is never a mess. It's a makeshift temple of your own religion. Books have souls but screens do not.
musty smell of yellowed pages that smell like the altar of word God—wire free.
No comments:
Post a Comment