Sunday, September 7, 2014
Internet of things.
I am already dead.
The instant is over.
I am passed into pixels.
I am young, I see myself acting, acting middle-age anger.
There is hurt in the glaring eyes.
I am reduced to a still.
I am framed in a moment 10:30 on Sunday 7 September.
I am a stream, a river of disconnected instants screaming for attention.
I am alive, I am dead.
Hope resurrect my youth with a swipe.
You see me as your thing.
We are as web of avatars, algorhythmic robots, waltzing in a cloud of particles.
I am made in your image.
I am target.
I am customer.
I am lover.
I am your object for an instant.
Scale me to your attention.
How will you divide your attention?
Grains of sand
We are swimming in quick sand.
We are both grain and grinder.
Time slipping through our fingers.
Shall we drown in this sink-hole?
Throw me a rope of reality, of time spent together, of common history.
Let us drink together before we drown to drown no more.
Let us touch.
Let us breathe in the dew of distant lands the dawn awakening.
What shall we make of Cyclops, who would Google us up?
Should we believe his plea that he serves no evil?
How shall we avert his gaze, while we dwell on the island?
Must we seek to blind the Cyclops?
We are prey, toy-thing, free lunch.
Sleep, and doze, listen to the sweet songs, fix your eyes on beauty my friends.
She is yours. Your play-thing.
She is dancing for you.
She is already ancient, her face is made up.
She is Circe.
Notice how the wolves are packed around her court.
They are as docile.
Beware the enchantress.
They are wolves and we are become swine.
You are myth, an odyssey to be written.
Attend to ancient heroes.
Awake and sleep no more.