Escapism
Posted: Mon Aug 02, 2021 12:45 am
.
Surrealistically, this is the good neighbourhood
in a dark netherworld. This buzzy simulation
is a patched facsimile of mass memories
downloaded and broadcast organically
He feels no nostalgia these days
for his dazed nights of insomnia,
waiting for the haze of daylight
and the tight ways of paranoia
a million dead on the internet
but a pain in his fingernail
is worse than genocide
for his state of mind
a red cocking knock on the door -
it’s her from the floor above,
her whore’s minutes offer
more than sucking love
she counts money inside her head
and worries about the swarms
of viruses alive in her eyes,
staining her neon irises
computer man needs food
she thinks, within her aura
of last night’s rubbery pricks
and pheromone tobacco sweat
the elevator cube smells of fire
like flesh melted into a burnt city
the mouth of the machine grins evil
and spits them down a tunnel of bones
a stone kitchen arcs electricity
sparking between levitating plates,
the globular walls stream acid yellow
eggs amid the heads of screaming pigs
the computer man doesn’t know he’s dead,
and the whore thinks of somehow escaping
goatish men, her tortures and the brain wires.
But all the exits here are closed until tomorrow.
Surrealistically, this is the good neighbourhood
in a dark netherworld. This buzzy simulation
is a patched facsimile of mass memories
downloaded and broadcast organically
He feels no nostalgia these days
for his dazed nights of insomnia,
waiting for the haze of daylight
and the tight ways of paranoia
a million dead on the internet
but a pain in his fingernail
is worse than genocide
for his state of mind
a red cocking knock on the door -
it’s her from the floor above,
her whore’s minutes offer
more than sucking love
she counts money inside her head
and worries about the swarms
of viruses alive in her eyes,
staining her neon irises
computer man needs food
she thinks, within her aura
of last night’s rubbery pricks
and pheromone tobacco sweat
the elevator cube smells of fire
like flesh melted into a burnt city
the mouth of the machine grins evil
and spits them down a tunnel of bones
a stone kitchen arcs electricity
sparking between levitating plates,
the globular walls stream acid yellow
eggs amid the heads of screaming pigs
the computer man doesn’t know he’s dead,
and the whore thinks of somehow escaping
goatish men, her tortures and the brain wires.
But all the exits here are closed until tomorrow.