And do your devices cause crisis?
Not for the gorillas or the coltan miners. I mean, screw them, right? They should get with the (shareware) programme.
I don’t care about that crime screen- sorry, scene. Neither do you.
We can screen it out, rope it off, easy as we like. With a vintage audio cassette – cracked like a human skull by a terminator’s curved steel foot- that tape spooling out spooling out.
Grab some of that metallic brown shiny stuff that nobody under, what, 40, knows what I am talking about, how you’d stick a pencil into the spool and twist your wrist, twist one off your wrist.
There’s no analog to that, in a digital age, is there?
Maybe refreshing the refreshing the refreshing. Ping ping ping? I don’t know, I’m too old for this shit.
You’re never too old to be an addict? Where was I? Am I? Was I? Diverted, distracted
It’s happening a lot, of late.
Audio tape! Crime screnes in the Congo! I lose my metaphors in my metadata, mater.
Like entrails, like small intestine from some idiot who didn’t know they were going to bomb the fucking market today. I mean, don’t you follow ISIS on twitter? Hello?
We tape off the scene from our Is. To keep us out or the bodies in, who knows.
Move on, nothing to see here, nothing to be seen screen scream here.
We please ourselves, we police ourselves, we police each other. Foucault
They’d be laughing like drains, but the panoptic is the
We’ve come to the other end of the spectrum.
The plectrum – the plastic on the string – is the
Music of total situational awareness,
Our tabs are keeping tabs on us. The browser browses both ways.
The spectrum is the plectrum is
the tool is the
panspectron that gives us
Permanent global summer time, permanent global
Simmer time. Permanent global
Bruler n’est pas repondre.
We eat, it, we breathe it. We can’t smell it. We were not born free, and everyone where we are in chains
Chains of chains.
How else do you run a global society? Damn it man. Would you have us live in caves? There are seven plus billion of us. Are you some sort of luddite?
Fuck the planet. I mean, seriously, like, what has it done for me lately? But
what about you?
Do you splinter in the reflections, the injections of digital botox of factoids and memes – mememememe.
Do you deafen yourself with the Instagram-a-phone? Do you throw your balls on the snapchatroulette?
All technologies will be the end of us, it has been ever thus. The phone was going to kill off visiting your neighbours, true fact. The radio, the television. Fear of the new, it’s how we’re…
Dare I say wired?
And but this time – like and unlike all the other times – is different. No, really, there’s an
MRI , I, I, to prove it…
The cynics can sigh
The users can sign in
There’s apps for that, and it’s all bad for our synapses, if you believe what you read on the…
Meanwhile, those gorillas aren’t getting any less dead, and polar bears aren’t getting any
Fatter. And the fear in the atmosphere
Is curving upwards, like a … thing that is
And when the anthropologists arrive from Mars – either because they were there all along,
Or they come back in a thousand years, to find their cryogenic master Elon Musk, and pop him in the microwave for more words of wisdom.
They will look through the record – the fossil record.
And will they have been able to have said anything other than– ‘who the hell did these people think they WERE?’
Here. You may have one in return. Written today.
Our bus is currently in mid-air
Behind us, the splintered remains of barriers,
obliterated by our urgent, hurried passage.
Beneath us, solid ground, hurtling ever nearer,
preparing to terminate us on impact.
Above us, only sky, in which there are no
meaningful signs of day or night or angels.
Around me a cabin full of passengers
Victims, hollowed out into caricatures or beaten
into disfigured counterfeits of themselves.
Passive witnesses, swallowing truth, lies and
contradictions; an unending stream of lukewarm
broth, delivered through self-inserted tubes,
avoiding the tastelessness of the contents.
The driver’s seat is conspicuously empty
Fancifully, I thought I saw a parachute behind
him when I paid my fare. But too eager for the ride
to ask questions, I overlooked it. On reflection,
his billion-dollar grin and Rolex should have alerted
us that all was not right. In these chronologically
disturbed moments of clarity, I peer outside.
The sky is full of buses, raining apocalyptically
One last shower of metal-encased humans
falls to earth, expunging the world of its final
pandemics: sharing and selflessness, poverty
and hopelessness, outrage and love. Unwitting
accomplices, we sit distracted by abstractions,
pieces of one another’s lives in our pockets.