and brain is malleable, eats video for dinner like nothing could ever be wrong in the world. it's been decided by the woman who lives in the computer and whom I love to kiss like I might be drowning. tongue and cheek, flailing out the portal to the rest of the world. and yes we’ll talk about pixels, red lipstick, the poison, the slow-acting acid like a 50s femme fatale, her eyes neon, flickering, soft as static on desktop plastic; as horror as fluorescent light. we pretended it was safe for the first few moments, the seconds before the self-fulfillment of a big bang tech-boom and now she’s got her hands gripped around the reins. she has the switches and the buttons and the gas pedal down to breaking.
and this is not the op-ed you read about the internet making us compost, making us rot, making us slouch or cancer or mutate muscle into sand. this is the op-ed about you can find his manifesto on and his search history suggested and the video was up for twelve minutes after
and this is the op-ed you read about the songs we sing for those in hatred. the songs we sing for the lost. the songs we sing for those imprisoned. the songs we sing for the dead.
and this is the song to say no, and this is the song to say stop, and this is the song to say listen
your anger does not belong to us.
history is tripping up the stairs as we speak. you can watch live. history is a Matisse. history is the umbrella you look at long enough to unravel time.
history is standing in the rain watching the many bodies brought back up from their grave.