Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Land of the Droids

These music box eardrum headaches,
through the allegorical deprivation,
where are the sanguine hopes
i've been dreaming of?

Six-pack brewery nightmares and
angular weekends with the rubbish streaming
from the human sea,
life in lover's streaming lace,
we embrace with sharks for neighbors.

Watch the screens, the screens
we are surrounded by them,
telepathic arrays of delight,
the tubes, the relentless iridescent tubes
alive with electronic pale consciousness,
the electronic new world jesus
will rise from the ashes of silicon
in the wake of the whizbang bible.

We live on acquisition and
fill the citadels with
scum and poison.

We permeate the air
with the fetid whispers of future demise,
we doubt and mitigate the meaning of the deed,
we breath on, from tired wheezing habit.

The memoirs of Fort Apache,
the deep and smoldering past,
the genocide of a way of seeing,
dead remnants left convalescing
in discreet holdings with tequila
as a device for numbing.

Judas goats disguised as Midwest bankers,
the interminable array of sheep,
the wildly pompous pedigrees of wealth,
short-winded capitalists climbing ever upward
on the slime they exude from themselves like spiders.

the old in nursing homes,
the children in day care,
the sick in hospitals,
all vehicles for profit.

Passion festers in the closet,
time is abused by
practical undertaking,
the inner corridors of humanity
have been decimated by pretense,
the void that remains,
is now replete with
cold phosphorescent electricity,
paper-mache ideas and
abundance of trinkets that
feel cold and distant to human hands.

The Droids are being mass produced
now in great number,
they are trained by
dazzling arrays of lights and signals,
they conform to elaborate codes
that no one ever utters,
obedience is practiced and perfected
with stunning care
in front of polished mirrors.

The Droids are amused by fads and
periodic public executions,
they are placated by game shows and
free tickets to the caribbean.

The brain of a Droid is a curious organ,
it does not consider or reflect,
it solves a problem by the annihilation
of whatever is its anticipated cause.

The Droids fear whatever
they can not understand,
Droids kill whatever
they fear.

Droids are happiest
when they feel nothing,
Droids are repulsed by whatever
causes them to feel,
Droids kills whatever
makes them feel.

So many Droids living next to
great and ever-expansive freeways,
so many living beneath the
vaporous trails of the airlines,
so many living in immaculate homes
in the midst of poison air,
so many perched precariously
on the excrement of their fellows,
so many Droids so marvelously oblivious
to the real texture of reality.

Tract houses are lined up in quiet regimen,
gravel driveways, manicured lawns, metal fencing,
a certain deadly quiet pervades the neighborhoods.

Inside the geometric houses
there lies the exuberance of material experience,
a shrine to petrochemical initiative,
a vivid testimonial to savage indifference.

Low background hum of solenoids,
the intense yet invisible display of magnetic flux,
machines are everywhere.

Droids are trained to circumvent complexity,
urged to squeeze their thoughts
into the spatial constraints as outlined
by the little television admen.

To Droids beauty, truth and human dignity
are faint mirages unattainable by
the methods of their training,
they lie in the indistinct shadow world
of what they might have been.

Droids have abandoned
the normal course of human evolution.

Beauty is no longer the outward manifestation
of an evolved personality honed by experience, but
a commercially attainable state achieved by
judicious application of petrochemicals to
the outer physical planes of the body.

Droids are masters of conformity,
in whose sphere truth and dignity
are faint images kept alive,
though they have been murdered.

Droids are desperately flawed
caricatures of humankind,
they are strangely numb to
elemental feelings,
categorically blind to the nature of events.

They can not look into the future,
and are incapable of insuring
the future survival of their own race.

Droids blow in the wind
like flimsy weeds,
Droids make no distinction
between what is living and what is not.

Droids are preparing the way
for a bold future:
When nutrients and energy and pleasure
become synthetically derived,
when the last formidable creatures of the planet
have been buried by rapacious indifference,
when the planet has been stripped of diversity
and coerced to conform to purely Droid-like ends,
when all these things come to pass,
as is clearly written in the materialist bible,
then the last vestige of the ancient human soul
will be dead.

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