i just killed a fleshy little bit inside;
each tap and click the pounding of nails
into heart’s squirming surface.
flashing past albums with names like:
bachelorette 5, smooch smooch 11, makes me want to vomit.
a churning of industry
pooping pin-up profile pics made to sell eggos,
the sweet airy delight of wasted mornings passing by
the oldest transmission known to man,
mouth to mouth, turning wall to wall,
and something that could kill us all:
a disease spreading,
infiltrating the network
of what-not’s, doo-dads and so & so’s.
dismantling the matrices,
lines and angles we clearly crowd around
to create virtual images deflecting worn reality,
the virtual leading our hearts eye
toward annihilation at the vertex
of this strung out interweb thingy.
cypher’s space destroyed
by cyber space droids
redirecting the unimagined self