Borrow The Indifference (Ed. I’m a spectator here too. Just passing along the uber. -Jerem)
- Written By ‘Siva de Ferrera [A.K.A. Keith Ferrera]
Mail will be delivered by telepathy in 18 months. They are beta testing it now.
V0.86’s only bug to speak of is that files larger than 100MB make the recipient breakdown in tears. V0.97ALPHA fixes that bug and only at 1.2GB does the recipientstart to drool and recite screenplays from old Kaptain Kangaroo episodes. RC 1.0 will almostcertainly come with disclaimer. With the speed at which the Available Information Ageis traversing, intercourse, by touching forefinger-to-forefinger, is not too far away. Japan, as always, is on the forefront of that technology. In fact, thumb-to-forefingerauto erotica SNAPS, as they are being referred to, are already being sold in Manga shops andBody Alt Clinics in New Tokyo and the openware downloaded on most Distributed Hash Trackers. Short for Sexual Narcissistic Auto-Erotic Pleasure Signalation, they have replacedHeroin as the “New Nod”. Outlawing their commercial use in the U.S. has only made them moreprevalent and SNAPSmodders have turned into the equivalent of a back alley abortionist…or abolitionist depending on which wing you cower under. Ironically though, drugs are no longeran issue since they, being only a substitution for prolonged orgasm, can’t compete with the real thing.Snapping your fingers in a Jazz club used to pronounce your hip appreciation for the artist.
Now, Mole Kids pop and lock, genuflect and gesticulate to MOOG lines and compressed beats
at24 hour Stations
with raw fingers… oozing…
Clasping hands, they hail one another with the credo, and subsequent manifesto, “Under and Out,”(as they Soul Shake, finger clasp, abrazo, and snap their fingers back on the release,taking care to firmly graze each others SNAPS) choosing to stay undergroundand riding the outer edge of frequency and technology, jacking whatever they can. In these OutRiders, Morrison’s Ghost still haunts, moving their souls closer stillto The End through these depraved and vagrant halls.
The abstract nightmare that is the the double-ought Decade is beyond our beatific imaginings.All the children are on Serotonin Re-uptakes…Them dementia prone nostalgics are driving them absolutely mad….and their parents are on Atypical Neuroleptics . Hippies close in and infect us with PTSD.You selfish Fucks!God is sitting in a virtual reality busgoing insane from the never-ending slaughter film. Crying with me. He realizes this… is the end,but is too disturbedto stop the rotisserie.His tears are desperate, but… he hears us not. His pain is deep.This is his fault.He is forsaken.He has forsaken himself. The sunbeam in his eye is glinting,glistening in his wet orb.He sees, butforgets his transgressions. We are lost on his dandruffed scalp.We are the plague on his skin.We disturb him.We have disowned him. He is alone and praying to give us peace.The parameters are too great.The rain falls intermittently throughout history.We gag on our monumental discrepancies. We fight and coerce one another.We have lost touch with choice.We devise broken divisions of mistrust and abandonment.We strike and miss the totality of the struggle. We curse our name.We bow to horrific non-fiction.Grabbing the neck in the mirrorwe strike with irrelevant Dogma. We curse our loinsleaving our seed’s innocent child in perpetual assault.Destroy our nameIn-The-Name-Of. Worship confused menand damn the others.The sand falls through the fingersand we hear not the wind. The angry screamcriedfellowships with ignorance and lays wasteto friendship and brotherhood. We are cloth and are clean.We are matter and existto balance anti-matter.We are one and only. We cannot bring ourselves to the end of ituntil weborrow the indifference of the seato the shore. Solace is a place beyond truth.Truth is irrelevant.We are a lost specieswaiting for a blackhole to swallow us with ambiguity. We know ourselves backwards.We revel in it.Saccharin bravery and rehabilitative economic sanctionswill be the death of glory and Capitalistic socialist Neo-Conservatist Democracy. Lose trust in a caricature.Dance silly to the Honky-Tonk Soul.It will glitch and glow to hyper-sensitive collective mediocrityand abandon itself to television opinion and categorical news. Fishing will only happen on the radio.A wheel well willcollect mud as designed,unknowingly. Darwin is proved and exonerated.We kick the wheel.We practice inconsequentials.We are proud and relevant. And still the pain falls.It fallsand washesthe pride from our lips. We jabber onand waitfor the firstto fall. When he whispers that gentle commandHe gives us ,graciously,our last deep breath. She runs her fingers through our hairone last time.She kisses our neckand divides time. Our eyes closedwe see nothing.We heara timid and thoughtful love uttered. She lingersthat moment like…unlike…ever before. (Someone imagines a kind scene playing out on a stage) Gleeking a final timeand brings reality to a complete and final retreat.In that finality the shadows live a lifetimeof doubt just as we had. Pulling their black faces over our eyes.Nothing fingers clutchsun cast liesand don’t cry out. Fuck! It’s never over.The back becomes the frontand polarizesthe insignificance. The poem only ends the words,but the thoughts continue to prevail and destroy the living mind.It’s only inheritance; Schizophrenia and unreturned Love.Not enough and way too much. Not worthy of the delicious completeness.Not born of Love, but constant reconciliation.of abandoned hope and futile adolescent grip.The suction of single purpose to open warmth. We cannot bring ourselves to the end of ituntil weborrow the indifference of the seato the shore. Solace is a place beyond truth.Truth is Siren, singing us to shipwreck.We are a lost specieswaiting for the singularity to swallow our ambiguity.