Show Me Television

The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves, Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns, Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority, Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment. Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes, Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells, Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus. Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry. Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention; Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads. But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know. Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere, Despite their lack of empirical validity. Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant. Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons, Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles, Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces, From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons. And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands, As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians. Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds, Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause. Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition. Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought. Where worlds were once created in cognition, They're now created in the lenses of cameras. When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye, They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.