please accept the terms & conditions before you proceed...

& *please, enter at your own risk!

∞

Will you allow technology to fully access your identity?

□ yes *or □ NO!

did you even
read
the terms&conditions?

also known as

monsters' diction
/ modernistic snot
condemn its riots
not stoicism, nerd
or crimson diets;
demonic tort sins

disclaimer:

perhaps you should pretend
to feign interest in
those lists of lengthy descriptions
never quite captured by our cognition
though not lost upon our inhibition
that may more or less explicitly detail
all the vicious ways in which
we are being unmistakably,
blatantly blackmailed
against our will / with our own consent
when we check the box that reads; "accept"
we exploit our most private content
to the highest bidder
so dare yourself to reconsider...

Welcome to the 18th year of century 21; the new millennium.

we are living in a world where
our most significant intimacies are shared
between the tips of our fingers
& the touch of a screen

reflecting our digitized lives
before prying eyes
that magnify
the things we hide

(but you can't hide,
don’t try)

while we wander through life
roaming via cellular connection
guided by the gentle misdirection
of the electronic dimension

seductive despite the apprehension
lurking beneath the tightening tension
that tethers us to the tender touch
of technological temptation

hypnotizing us in its animation
as it memorizes us & analyzes what
we think, say & do online upon every occasion
while we continue to ignore the trepidation
lingering within our realization

that children today will be born
with fluorescent addiction
flowing through their veins,
a condition nothing short of inhumane

you might say society's to blame
but no one prepared us for this high-tech hurricane
humankind's claim to fame
a reality we deemed difficult to obtain
artificial intelligence will never be worth more than a brain
but we've created a world where eventually nothing else will remain

whatever humanity is
we seem to be losing touch
with what it used to be

Who would have ever guessed that our fingertips could crave a screen's touch to a human's?

we have become parasites that feed
upon the delights emitted by the blue light
of our digital paradise
where precious memories are measured by megabytes
archived to our favorite device
to which we automatically sacrifice our rights
without thinking twice
so here's a word of advice:
don't roll the virtual dice
because this wi-fi powered world won't play nice

*Is this the real life?

Distorted faces.

Distorted bodies.

They like me the most.

I stay amidst them.

I accept all that they gift

yet I know them so little.

I see them partly

but I gladly take it as whole.

They are too simple.

They are ready to hug.

For me,

they're quite complicated

for a hug.

My eyes feel very vulnerable in the moment just like yours when you glance upon me. Thoughts of you keep floating in this room like ghosts ready to possess me and throw me down on the bed and make love to me. I think I was right when I told you about the wind touching me in all those places which are rightfully yours. The howling, barbaric, digressive wind who takes your place beside me every night and makes me moan as I sleep. Lover, won’t you claim your mistress back from the embrace of the air, from the dead of the night? I breathe. Silent restless sighs. My eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and unguided, lose track of time and disappear away.

These woods are of dark myriad words
With huge canopies and a mossy floor,
And bogs and mires,
And ancient carcasses,
Undeserving of funeral pyres.

A wooden tree house
Lies atop those forgotten branches
Where resides a queer beast
Called “Soul”.
She is as faithful as she is fretful.
She is worrisome and lonesome.
She has few things,
Just some.

Sometimes,
She bleeds poetry.
And the vacuum of her eyes,
Resembles the tinted void of the skies.
The sunlight could flow through her.
Unadulterated.
Untransformed.
And resurrect more trees
From the decaying pyre,
Of memories.

Pink, green, yellow and blue
Are shades of a silent hue,
Who look at her face
And stare enraptured,
At what she becomes.
A terrible travesty,
Yet a beautiful catastrophe.

The wooden walls of her suntorn tree house, on the corner of bamboo wo(o/r)ds are studded with gems of lichen. Damp, ***** and delicate is the green of the Soul. It is unfriendly out there where she treads undaunted and unclothed, sometimes resting her back against the slithering cold of the disquiet walls. All this so she could lick her fingers and touch the raw of her vertebra. She rubs her bones against defenseless bodies, writhing against each other.

Soul
In the woods of words.

Soul
Bellicose,
Domineering,
Salacious.

Soul,
With a potbelly
And a twisted smile,
That could conceive
Insects
As she spoke.

Yet,
Soul,
Who could
Filter
The Sunlight.

Little flowers dot her face. Wild flowers from weeds she would not let live, so she bereaved them of their flowers. The forests throb with the excitement of her whimsy. The sunlight grins remembering all the ways in which her monstrous glory falls apart in front of him and all the places he could illumine by trapping her. He has trapped her into carrying his s(u/o)n everywhere, but never visit. The winds mock her and play with her hair and perversely caress the belly that nurses the sun’s child.

Poor Soul,
Tiny Soul,
So brutally Young.

Angry Soul,
Humiliated Soul,
Disgruntled
And foul.

Her vulnerable eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and, unguided lose track of time and disappear away.