Stop with the bull-oney ornery ads agitating
our collective constitution, mindless mead feeding
the marrow-sucking soulless plane of tomorrow.
Just stop, I have no friends on Facebook, I just have
hundreds of people who are my friends on Facebook.
Stop. And if I post this heartbreak, I’ll get bundles of “likes”.
My mind has become a telegram reading of today. Stop.
Social media spreads the threads of synaptic conditioning,
so when it fires you fire, pull trigger, and click,
washing our eyes with contact constant through multiplied lenses.
Neurosis implants itself in young eyes growing in the screen world.
The (photo)bom-bardment of
whoweshouldbe,
whatweshouldwant,
howweshouldlook.
(And we send our friends the links.)
Hashtag hashtag hashtag,
no wonder the hand pulls hair roots out from the scalp,
roots out, burned land, out-rooted, like they’ll take the
“I can’t take this” along with them.
Let’s get to the root, let’s get to the route, let’s get
off of this circular driveway.
Beginning the end of the cyclical cynical.
Part t
w
o
I’ve seen beautiful humans voluntarily knifed
in an attempt to perfect what is already imperfectly perfect.
We’re sorry, you’ve been disconnected from your body.
Please wake up and buy again.
Find the nearest wifi signal, the sky-high indulge
in this “why-try” impulse, but our eye’s multilingual.
We don’t look in one language. So why uniform our form?
Why saw the horn off the unicorn? There is a
mythology in all of us. Why untell that legend?
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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