This is the age of electronic blackmail. The blackmailers go… raping everyone they can get their technopediatric hands on.
Weeping chains rattled those newsmen, nosey for seeds, poking prodding through the truffle garden lost in the world. They brought the cameras to pin us to the ground. To place us in the center of the trap. To shut us inside. To place us squarely underneath the foul and torn rumps of our forefathers whose efforts through eternity have been sterilized, rendered neuter. As efforts continue to sanitize us all… to clean up our nastiness. The efforts of the marketers will ultimately serve to melt through our emotions with branding irons of white-hot bone cleaved from the bodies of television dead idols. They brought microphones to pick up the sound of our fat dissolving. Sizzling loose cells inside silky skins to pick up romper rumors and lies undetectable in casual every day speech or body language. They forced the microphones upon us to tease us with our own sounds. We are infants crawling in dangerous streets. Convulsing from the smog. They are treating us with vibrations so destructive they could wipe out the songs of all religions and races that are unlike the breed of stinking canine gorilla that beats his chest atop the empire strikes back building.
The canine gorilla gods will appear to us across magnetic billboards floating in the skies above your town. They’ll have the snail people, the snake handlers, the dirty felchers and the Mad Advertisers under their influence.
And because of the cameras and microphones… your exact height and weight down to your cellular blueprint your every like and dislike your mother’s name your father’s name any assumed names, identities or lies would all be passed and reviewed in the microworld by the machines run by androids.
There you will dissolve, slowly, like Alka Seltzer dropped in a flute of polluted water.
They ascended into town, from their lair beneath the ground, breaking up spraying dust with their camouflaged copters, catching the light of the sun as they floated overhead momentarily before touching down atop the Bank of America skyscraper. The men inside, insane in their drowned plastic night, spilled into the city looking for raw materials.
They looked tired and hungry as they battered down my door, but all I had was beer and brown rice in the refrigerator. So they ate it all and continued to ask me so many unreasonable questions as though I had some richly worked scheme in back of me like an idiot mirror of all that is so disgustingly complex and warped in society. They thought they could analytically break me down with their technology… using their primitive, modern techniques on my words twisting them until they broke, bending them until they buckled, refining here, diluting there. They branded those of us they neurojacked with cabled, white-hot bone irons and our language became unintelligible (to match theirs). But I thought I was fighting back, and I gave them my words and cast my spells like pollution and their impatience grew strong, virulent. And their mistakes increased in frequency and severity.
Yes, the information age was packaged from the loot and filthy rags they’d plundered from our parent’s graves. Dirty diaper mania was on the news again last night… place by place under the mounds, green and glowing.