This is not a story. This is not literature.
This is a spit in the face.
A kick in the nuts. A punch in the ***.
A shooting spree,
of consonants and vowels, aimed at snowflakes.

This is to be loathed. This is to cause anger.
This is to be deleted, blocked, downvoted, canceled and hated.
Demonetized
by coding corpses in Silicon Valley

It is my hope a Twitter Mob forms,
curses my name, relegates me to Louis CK status.

This is my ***** and I take it out
a dark web palm reader for the snowflakes.
This is my ***** and I take it out
to **** on the face of all Boomers, Gen Xers
and especially the Millennials and Gen Z

You who have grown with smartphones akin to limbs,
priapic pineal glands, ophthalmic screens…

You who have “emotional support animals”
I hope your emotional support animal
mauls you to death like an Alaskan grizzly bear
and you ******* die like that execrable Australian crocodile ****

You who have “safe spaces”
I want to rig your safe spaces
with prepositions, adverbial pipe bombs
and laugh as they explode like an Ariana Grande concert

Yes, YOU, you snowflakes…

You who have transformed young America
into a coddled wasteland
of mock outrage, moaning prudes

You who subscribe to video game streams on YouTube
You who pay punk *** PewDiePie his millions
while the greatest living poet in America works as a janitor!

You who fight over bathrooms
You who bastardize legitimate arguments,
shame those who marched
shame those who righteously died

You who vote Republican and Democrat
You who watch CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News
You who wish to silence creators
You who are triggered
You who can’t take a joke
You who can’t fathom opposing views
You who Yelp, write online reviews
in braille
You who protest Sarah Silverman and Dave Chappelle

You, you snowflakes: I want to reach into your toilets
to smear myself in your ****
and kick at your ***** and ***** as you whine online about my blackface

I want to punch your nose
paint myself in your blood and attack your colleges
with wadded up copies of The Naked Lunch and Tropic of Cancer

I want to hack Spotify
replace every playlist with Public Enemy on a continuous loop
and blast 2 Live Crew
from loudspeakers down every boulevard in Northern California

I want to hog-tie conservatives, make them watch gay ****
I want to hog-tie liberals, make them watch monster truck rallies

Because your phone can block
Your phone can delete
But energy cannot be destroyed

And ART, speech, thought
Are the purest form of energy
The very flesh of emotion…

Currency both malefic and supernal!

And now, snowflakes
now I tie your noose
I grind my knife to your throat
I aim my AK at your temples
Just to tell you this:

Sticks and stones can break my bones
But words will always nourish me…

Let there be commerce!

a respite from The You

this immense communication

step back from The Live Mould

and the ‘fright & flight’ media

One click, two click let's count them together.
One makes you happy but many makes you famous.
A house hold name is what everybody wants to be.
A face recognized by millions and a name worth it's weight in gold.
How many clicks can you get when honesty is all that is told.
How valuable are the memories once they are sold?
The price they would pay isn't paid in gold.
So why do we do it?
All it does is drive us insane.
Why do you care so much if others call you plain?
So you dance in many circles, You mimic birds and books.
You've had troubles in a space that comes straight from your looks.
Flipping through pictures of a story meant to lul people to sleep.
All for what instant gratification?
So many clicks from a stranger, I'd call that obsession.
An invasion of privacy but then again you let them.
Now all eye's are on you and all you have is aggression.
The bad out weighs the good.
It's currency is called depression.
We've spent all of the happiness on clicks and called it a profession.
As long as it fills our ears, the ones covered in LV.
They cost us so much and now we can't afford to lose.
Click three and click four look better than before.
Click five and click six and now your as big as bricks.
Keep counting you might make it someday.
You could be famous!
They already abhor you!

is eating me alive
its digital teeth tear through my flesh
blood is on the screen

all i ever wanted was to be loved

Me before you.
What a
Letter ofvpure
Selfishness
As i look at the email
I am slack jawed and enraged.
Blocking that squash head.

I walk to the pub or club,
Talk with folks,
Go play table tennis
Or shop.
But apart from all that chat,
Where do I get my “World View”?

How do I know what’s going on
Outside my little comfort zone?
I could even be another Jim Carrey
In some “Truman Show”,
Being filmed for some TV soap
That I’ve never seen
By Big Brother cameras everywhere;
Feeding off fake news
About the universe outside.

For everything we “know”
Comes from TV
And our mobiles
And PCs.

It could all be as false
As Trump says it is,
If he really exists!!!
Where is the Truth?

Will a No Deal Brexit be a catastrophe
Or a breeze in the park?
Are our “Enemies” really in the wrong?
Is the wider world anything like
It’s painted
On TV???

The con men, and women
Probably have us
In their pockets.
So all we can do
Is be as vigilant
As we can
And hope
That true Reality
Will be detected
At last.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\8\2019.