Not the bliss of your satisfaction

‘How do I break it before you break me’ you said screamed to a tired old robot and to the mirror and there are no lions anymore, they were all jerked off to death and the robot has no noose with which to hang itself it had oiled its parts while you had practiced chaos magic when programming and reprogramming had failed, domestic bliss, entomological mutant epistemological insect that eats the drudge from plastic-infused beaches and before that drank tisanes with spider eggshells

how how how (let each syllable reach its logical end, even if you run out of breath, like a banshee from the days of old or a poet of these interstitial times)

‘Remember how I messaged you,’ you have run out of matches and gigabites and there is only one remaining person wearing their own colours, refresh that page seventeen times a second, think of some big search company cleaning up search results just enough to appease a sense (false) of decency, wear ear plugs have you considered the abandoned cluster of unbounded unchained industrial goth techno will no one think of slime girls

which reminds me, there is a war coming over, let’s not use sick metaphors and call it a storm, it will stay for dinner and there’s no screaming in the world that will stop it – feed it some thirst for blood, it will eventually go away and in the meantime the gulf stream is dying and there you were, thinking water could not be reduced to rubble.