They no longer question. They circulate media objects. Text reigns where rang living song. The empty machines make food of the world, and eat it: from the marrow, outward. There is a dead bird, but it is flying forever. There is a dead mouth, and it is speaking in every silence. There is a dead war, and it is fighting every child. There is a dead sky, and it is rising in the hearts of the crushed, the dismissed, the imprisoned, the converted. They no longer question. They disagree in endless unities of failure. Perfectly individual, all that connects them is which preferences or complaints for the produce of machines they prefer. Which subculture of the moment. They become new slang. A word or image rises over them like a rapist in prison. They celebrate this madly, as ascent into meaning. They take the organ of intimacy into their mouths, and spread what comes out of it into their lives. Television was a saintly sacrament compared to this. They no longer question. They transmit. The reproductive juices of the monster. The machine that masquerades as minds and lives. The converted. Are eating. The sky. There is a dead bird. It is flying forever. It kills what it sees. And it dies inside time. Perfectly individual. Their division stands for unity. Dying in time. They circulate media objects. A dead hand is writing. They take the organ, smile, swallow, and spread the disease. They stare into the monster while it does them. The prance around like heroes when it happens. In public. They become new slang. Television only consumed their dreams, now we take it all. And call it sharing. They no longer question. They call it sharing.
Posted on: Thu, 13 Jun 2013 04:21:05 +0000
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