We are killing at a distance now.
It is a most clean and efficient form of homicide.
The Decider decides,
not the guy in the drone control,
not the millinery brass - no,
every hand is washed,
all the way up the up-chain
and that chain leads not to any person,
for the Decider is hidden.
Death is sent with surgical precision.
Missile to target, mission after mission.
Death now resides
in a small remote computer,
that hums away happily night and day.
It never stops deciding,
controlling who lives or dies.
It has a program, one it programmed for itself.
It has an endless list, and everyone is on it.
It decides who needs death now
or later. Where to diagnostically strike,
where to smartly eliminate
without the messy, close-up hate.
The busy desk-top automata
drones on and on,
and the death-count ticks on and on.
The good and the bad are named
and only after the murder
are they blamed.
It is a pin-point killer, it is tidy
for every hand is clean,
while any hint of distant blood
is aseptically, and most compassionately
washed away
"Sung In"
We are notes
on the tongue
of God
Each of us words
in a never ending
sentence
Music is math
God breathes us in
out of Time
We are but droplets
past and present
participles
wet behind the ears
unable to hear
the full melody
of
"what is this song?"
We move
punched out
perfect and yet wrong
holy and unholy
chords pulled tight
and we are automata running
under the pedals
of bare feet bleeding
playing a symphony
We do not fully understand
and we are slowly
beings being
low tides
caught in the ripped veil
sung in
blind
unseeing
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Radiohead - "Everything In Its Right Place" (slow version)
Artist: XavieRinato
https://youtu.be/B5mrbr5qTDQ
Facebook drugs scrolling, infinite in veins
sensational Instagram ADDICTED so high
sleep DRAINED lives can't ABSTAIN Twitter
Linkedin DESTINED to intersect and reply.
Pinterest SLAIN time as tabs click to save
sponsored DEMONS pop again and again.
Links and videos, completed imagination
gyrating to What's App, selfies not in VAIN.
Destressing with 'likes' all weight of WOES
friends and relations surfing the digital sea.
Craving data, no need of humans anymore,
a landscape automata making lives easy.
Online shopping, crazy things just all bought
Captcha announces, "No you're not a robot."
10th August 2019
Sponsor Emile Pinet
Contest Name Eight Word Challenge
The new lips do not pride
The old philosophical sense, only the rosiness
Games, hysterically arouse,
For those who would keep the lips
Before they start to drink, the empty
Brain of a rider star.
The new lips do not care
Brings an ancient's mirth,
Now not even God on the beach,
The struggle by those invisible speakers
Before we can reach twenty and one.
Beneath this shame, the hungry for more nonsense
And pain the attempt to lamps us
As a pair of humans, worrying about sex
Warning you that you soon will be a Daddy
Or an old man but life is still on a bunch of fragrance and wine.
The new lips do not love
The perfect thing, dead or alive, cares less;
Hardest made for a past worker,
By the golden madness; the men who have done
It for us, the trouble aged leader.
Just as nobody care or worry less, dissolving himself
Into a dateless whirl
With trust and dust and death insurance,
You shall stand up your attention
For other who perhaps can go more farther than him.
Fire of passion disclosed
Triumphs an endless butane battery
Storing up nuclear charge
All mystic splashing neon energy
Love of soul pools communal
Exchanging cryptic disguise for truth
The kind that bleeds through a coat pocket
Sending me to you instantly!
How I forgot
Love's incessant ecstasy
Taught to look, behave, restrain
Who's fools code is this?
Wild abandon redistrict
Trumps well organized automata
Engraved lifeless on the page-grave
Put out your far reaching desire
Blending mind and matter
We are the unprincipaled storage keepers
Taking care to love with fury!
Biography of a Man
We are creatures
atop and below
whose ancestors joined
long ago.
Slimed together
in gelatinous
biological glue
swallowed into
the maw of an elastic fish.
I don't know why
I think myself alive,
I,
suffused among
masses of
soft automata,
each with its own god,
can hear the pumps
and wonder.