"pixilated" poems
sail boats
and oceans
and really anything that floats and carries a person
far away
in a big body of water
I don’t think I have to say why
it’s obvious
I’m sure everyone has a thing for sail boats
and oceans
I like busses too
I seem to get really impatient on them, and I like that a lot
because I know I can’t do anything about it
it’s a game of
Will I Go Crazy Or Will I Have A Snooze?
I like being stuck between being stuck and being unstuck
one day I want to sit on a bus for 24 hours and see what happens
(I will be doing a lot of that in the month of October)
I’ll bring books, my iPod and movies to watch on my laptop
but I’ll probably just stare out the window hours on end
tall buildings will turn into blurry trees and blurry trees
will turn into pixilated neon canola crops
and there’ll be cows and ponies and one long road
to Montreal
then Toronto
then who the **** knows where because I am already dreading
going home after the trip
even though I haven’t left for the trip yet
it’s months to come
I have a thing for finding a new home
everywhere I go
but I never find one
I like the process of looking for a really long time
then giving up from discouragement and sad feelings of
abandonment stemmed from my childhood daddy issues
I’m pretty sure everyone has daddy-abandonment issues
I have a thing for assuming every one has the same problems
that I do
but it turns out that there are loads of girls that like to eat
lots
and don’t feel ashamed of the extra scoop of
double fudge ice cream
and there are teenagers that get along with their fathers
and look up to them
they go out for lunches and joke about dates and fix cars
and tell their little girls they’ll always be their little girls
and go on awkward shopping sprees and barbecue
but everyone has a thing for sail boats and water
we all want to escape
our eating disorder and drinking problem
a skinny body or a bulky body
bad grades and perfectionism
the people pleasing pushovers
fathers and mothers and old european traditions
family dinners that go perfectly and are so boring because of it
the fragility of feeling unique
the arrogance of feeling unique
the lack of faith in ourselves
being alone
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…”
Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway
And why did you not go refill the popcorn,
Veronica? You ate it all during the previews
Though I warned your stomach would hurt.
Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane
And why did you not go to the bathroom,
My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud
But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech.
Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough
For this fate? And how could I have agreed,
Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy,
Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret.
The Bullets.
The Cape.
The damning shot
Would have slapped
Even Batman
Dead.
Young Veronica, why is the memory of you
And your innocent flesh fading fast,
To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive
For the four-foot long coffin we buried.
Yesterday.
Cop lights.
My camera with
The last shots of you
“Stolen, sir.”
Wail, Veronica from the camera screen
In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him,
Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile
Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
Jumanji was your favorite Robin Williams movie
Mine was Dead Poets Society
You didn’t think it was too interesting
And you fell asleep on my shoulder
When we watched it on a pixilated
2” by 5” screen
Moving at 1 ½ miles per hour
On a bus
Going 5000 frames per second
Over a burnt sandwich chips
We stopped near Michigan and State
To talk about our favourite books
Yours was As I Lay Dying
Mine was The Old Man And The Sea
We talked about the relationship
Between Faulkner
And Hemmingway
And if they ever kissed
Or shared coffee
Or at least thought about it
If Faulkner liked Jumanji
And Hemmingway was partial
To Dead Poets Society
If it turned out
They were chips of a fractured whole
Did Faulkner ever take Hemmingway home?
Does the Hemmingway house still have Faulkner’s toothbrush
On a splintered wooden nightstand?
Did they ever wake up with the wrong socks on the wrong feet
And laugh it off because it was so funny
Were they ever afraid?
Were they ever happy?
Did Faulkner write to Hemmingway
About the Post office?
Did Hemmingway write to Faulkner
About fishing?
“The old man lay dying in the sea”
We wondered if they ever wrote together
Held hands
Traded coffee cups
But you fell asleep
And I kept writing
And watching Dead Poets Society
Wondering if Hemmingway ever would have
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
I seek you between the pixels
and the pixilated.
Electrons still smell of where you past.
Photons rearranged, your likeness
flutters into existence then fades again, as it begins to snow,..
a wrong wavelength.
If you were here, you'd see,
my hand in the air, with a foot on the couch.
An antenna stuffed awkwardly
in a sleeve. My fingers extending to the gods as..
I Ballance my loginhand technology.
Laughter iHear and twist my head, body and arms
this way and that... I'm getting close..I turn my head and..
...oh! " Hello honey, your not online?".
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
The trapeze artist without
trapeze,
encased within a paper weight,
reading through eye
glasses crafted for readers
astigmatic use.
This is the mind set...... this is the end truth.......
Being is embryonic,
to become, to the pupal larva,
a new becoming, Life.
II
Quantum leaps often end in tragedy
when the time traveler ceases to travel
The sudden stop!
Rapid communication......synaptic calibration......recall all yesterdays.
blind intellect one tenth of one second 15 seconds
The dimensions split and the bicameral mind appears two lobes
right and left, inverted vision adjusted for
mythic fusion,
creating abstracted convolutions
answering to them self. A planet in a galaxy of confusion.
III
Imagination finding place in the new electronic
institution, man made synaptical illustrations
from pixilated madness.
We take from this..............an
illogical extension of our existence that makes some sense.
We make it such
that it becomes
the most told lie
we believe without questioning.
Till death we do part.
IV
As I inhale looking at my past...my last past, well
in any case the past is where I just wrote past the last time
like now PAST.
Rationalization is overrated, intellectual ************
is for the cools, and catatonic haze is a new wave drug.
It is early in a new society's evolution.....
It is late in the face of time......
ergo quantum quandary quid pro quo
Ajerry / copyright
2013
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
First, let’s talk about some of the lies
Uttered by the nefarious and unwise
Of a peculiar type of mindless insanity
Created and backed by the inanity
Of the Madison Avenue careerists
And hordes of conspiracy theorists
Who have taken the issue of a ****
And buried it in misconduct and greed.
It is important not to fall for the joke
That it is quite all right to smoke
Because smoking anything you pass
A dose of something called cyanic gas
Into your lungs, and perhaps minimal,
It’s the gas they use to execute criminals.
But, other uses for this homegrown stuff
Can help people whose lives are tough.
But the whole shooting match is a dodge
Started out by rich men in their fancy lodge
Fueled by ignorance and false piety
Written into law by a strangers to sobriety
That somehow had no problem with drinking
But thought being ****** was stinking thinking.
So they created movies and legends galore.
But repression is all the lies were ever for.
(There’s an old joke about a boss’s decree
About employees drinking ***** daily.
He issued the rule on the smell-free *****
That was drunk at lunch time by his crews,
Because he didn’t want customers hazy
Thinking his employees were going crazy.
He preferred they know they were inebriated
Rather than a staff full of the grossly pixilated.)
It was that kind of thinking that created
A fervor that up until today has not abated,
That named an easily grown garden plant
Into some kind of major anti-opium rant,
While opiates are endorsed by the AMA.
And hundreds of versions are here today
To cure the same ailments as cannabis
Without the side effects that are a nemesis.
Medical science is finally ignoring
A sacred cow that needed goring;
Suggesting to the country as a whole
That this simple plant can play a role
In helping those who need relief
And are being criminalized by a belief
That, accompanied with such sadness,
Was the true definition of ****** madness.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
Stripping myself
down to nothing.
So I can look
pretty,
like all them other
***** do.
Pixilated to perfection.
Welcome,
my never-ending nightmare.
Bringing myself down,
so I can go down onto them?
lololollolol
Uhhhh I mean,
right before they
lay down
on their
backs.
Up
on a giant silver platter.
They're the main course, after all.
Funny, cause this pack of wolves.
Don’t even like *****
But they're munching on something.
*****
*****
&
More of them.
You're not the only one.
The rest of us are still clownin' in the closet.
SO
Play the chess-chest game.
Cause you have to.
&
Cut off the Queens head.
Purple looks better on you
anyways.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
I know what we have is really quite solid.
But today I convinced myself of an earthquake.
Perhaps it began on screen
Some distant, modern tragedy.
I felt
The gravity
You know the kind
Some feel in a theme park ride
At first
It was a calculated calm
A day in the park
Vision shot through
pixilated
Bedding me
under
in **** fixation.
Such is my kaleidoscope to our collective,
defecate,
fantasy.
When the world turns 'round
those candy colors
dissolve into perfect fractals
geometry.
Single-file they beam--
pushing out
pop-cultural enemas
like frosting.
And then— too bright!
A riveting newsflash
the kaleidoscope
is
cracked.
flickering
gasps.
We watch
a city as
its body's streets--
collapsed.
see the banner of
blood now runs
down the news anchor's face:
There's been a
catatonic quake.
Interrupting this program
the woman
with a saccharine smile
makes A Devastating Report:
Yes.
We're all undertow
Evacuate then buy this ****** cream
move and upgrade your resume
The water broke and the oil spilled,
but the economy is definitively
under control.
This puppetry is
sedation by generalized asphixiation,
this American Dream glaring from the T.V. screen
is mindless work
-our salvation-
Harder work? Isolated suffering.
What with toxic invasion,
designer cantaloupe to nuclear waste,
more storms and third world turnover rates.
Higher and higher inflation,
predatory insurance claims-
minimum wage won't cover my education.
Bloated babies
not on T.V. and not in Africa
but holding Mamma's hand
loitering downtown,
near the grocery chains.
See the quake perpetuate:
These are American hunger pangs.
Occupy for Change.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 1:22 AM UTC
Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.
Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs
on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.
She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands,
finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-fucked sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Imitation is the ******* of creativity.
So where for art thou romantic silopsisms?
Meta-physical lotion, rubbing Prufrock's
bald head. Where are the errors, syntactical?
Intimation is the blow job of canon,
The body, electric, ******* on Mt. Abora's
Cliff face. Short syllabic thrusts put the pallet
in trouble. Sharp edged thoughts caught in the throat of the speaker, leaving them mush-mouthed,
Sentimental.
The poor rhyme scheme, literary analysis 101
feet, and meter abandoned for fun,
Or played with weakly piling on what will
Fit neatly enough in the bottom swill.
Unrequited love notes, star-crossed cries,
Knotty tangled sentences to explain the deep ties,
Out of focus snapshots of pixilated lives
Even this bad poem, escaped the editor's knife.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
Electrical Ghosts.
I'm glad that you
didn't have to fade
out of life
on support.
I feel sorry,
for all the new technologic ghosts.
Electrically wired into a circuit board of uncertainty and doubt.
That represent you in a series of
up
down,
up,
down,
down lines
that pace about
the pixilated to pharmaceutical perfection,
screened monitor
above your hospitol bed.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 10:52 AM UTC
In the bleakest part of winter.
When earth is covered with snow,
A sentry of masculine gender
Stands without a sign of woe.
How is it snow men always smile?
The scenery isn't great.
Though they most often dress with style,
They are always overweight.
Magic silk hats hide their bald heads.
Their carrot noses aren't cute.
Beady eyes seem pixilated.
They don't even own a suit.
So, why do these guards always smile?
What can they all smile about?
To contrast, scarecrows are most vile,
With a look that's all worn out.
Scarecrows got the cerebral part,
But it wasn't an even trade.
For what snowmen got was a heart,
In the love with which they're made.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
It barely makes it bearable but bearable none the less
I only ever enjoyed you when we were in a mess
Needles on the draining board and dettol on your wrist
Meals before fainting slow empty bottles ******
Rolled up receipts to unroll
We're gonna need that dough
Amyl Nitrite. Woah!!
Orange stars and speckled doves
Tongues and lips and hands and legs and hips all pushing, grinding, grabbing trying to find a way inside you
Resonate when well oiled
Lucy was in the sky and I was in the palm of your hand, pixilated
Pipes, knives and bee hives for the honey in your tea
Crack on the pavement till we were like rag dolls
Bundles of flesh and bone with icky like indecision rummaging through drawers, ashtrays, pockets and old school bags to try to find something to keep the buzz alive and the birds at bay but more importantly to avoid sobriety with you
I think it's time to leave
I'll die for my love for you
But as for you my dear I'll see you next week when I pick up my things
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
With iron and honey I glaze both cheeks
while two bees bumble up each cascade
pressing curvy pumping abdomens
with points plying as they scrape
each presses into a cheekbone producing
blossoms of irritated wine and grape
pixilated with pyrexia I collapse in a
webbed hammock perplexed
and wait and wait
my mouth blazing I gaze up and despise
the puffy diluted masses in fields of blue
my cheeks dilated threatening to thunder
and then a pause as sweat brings honey
tumbling uncontrolled
out from within
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
Sensory deprivation douses my days
Neither perfume, nor pictures
to placate
No cadence of a voice contrasted
No distractions, now look away
Ban all Color
chromatic avian avoidance
But It only takes one slip
to oxygenate those sacred sepia images
You were the reason!
you eviscerated “grey”
the enormity of a
pixilated instant:::
the shadow of a look
Arise again, stand tall and seductive,
awaken a cleft heart again
but the pleas go unheard
and
callous knees make for hollowed souls
this crawl so familiar, hallowed, fetching... as I look now, upward at your
carnal,
cardiac,
catharsis
I find that familiar rush
The drilling down of blood :::
Presses through once indifferent veins (my lamentation inoculation... you are viral once more)
Imagined love had seemed so tame.
The cataclysm corners, hidden well in green eyes,
inauspicious,
until
it’s time (to strike)
tensions feast on the remaining light (dusk remains, night yields, but those eyes they’ll haunt forever).
When was the last time I grasped your fingers?
When jungle lust simplicity gave way to
the steady silent ether of complacency
I knew
I had
lost
her
Yet, I still reach for the smell of you on my hands. It’s no longer there. The cruelest of nostalgias to soothe my most masochistic of reliefs.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
you-blunt-smoking-instaweed-post-on-facebook-weed-smoker
you-blonde-at-the-cvs-pharmacy-that-had-a-high-school-abortion-and-was-ostricized
you-proud-and-sober-born-again-praise-the-lord-believer
that posts
pixilated baby photos
peach-flavored blunt wrappers
a bad picture of a lonely flower
who are you
you are looking more aged every year
I don't know who is sadder.
I am sorry I speak poorly of you
I do not know what happened to me
I do not know what happened to you
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
I crawl into bed
And get under the lonely covers
My pillow cushions my head
These sheets have never known lovers
Yet I feel you next to me
For although I'm all alone,
Your smile speaks to me
As we Skype through the phone
We give up hours of sleep
As we talk into the night
I haven't counted sheep in awhile
And that's quite alright
We start to drift into our dreams
But there's one last thing to do
We look at each other in our screens
Then I put to my phone to my lips and kiss you
Were so far apart
But these pixilated kisses ease the pain
I go to sleep with a happy heart
And thoughts of you fill my brain.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
The pixilated light I hold in my hands
I prefer over the rays of the star we orbit.
When the sun falls down, to spread its golden shine to a different plane,
Mine glows brighter still, ethereal, clean and white.
I cover my head, my soul, as I **** out my insecurities, like a dog marking its territory, all over the virtual forest of broken lives.
Screaming out coyly for attention to rescue my mind from the insolence I perceive my reality to be, behind ironic wording and new age grammar, I wear like plastic garments, leeching toxins into my infected blood stream
Sweat stained dream
Ripped seam
Digital gleam
Internet fiend
“Why is the world so mean?”
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
You didn't see the lacerations
on this wanderer's heart,
he followed you wherever you go,
drank from the enchanted pond
of your beauty, got tipsy
couldn't move from here
as a silver ray of light, tied him for ever.
Like a pixie, you made him loose his bearing,
got drunk with love, your sweet poison,
he lost his way out from here,
he loves the feeling,
getting pixilated by you, to him is heaven,
he just wants you to be his dancing partner.
Life is a wild dance in the forest,
memories of varied kind we planted, ourselves,
grow, flower and spread musky scent,
all we take away are the pollen stuck
to our ecstatic gyrating souls,
and a bit of light we earn on the way
by loving one another deeply with heart.
Pour me one more drop of that-
drink, beauty you carry so light,
let me go for a trip
to the far continent of your soul,
and merge with that landscape.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Push harder.
It’s the cork that keeps us from negotiating.
It is the hip lashes that are bound to the wall we are trying to move.
Like rippling beasts.
This will evolve.
Each revolution around a pixilated world are just metaphoric steps, aren’t they?
Because no one really moans like that unless they know someone is listening.
I was listening.
My body is foreign to me now. I am in a new birth.
I am fascinated with the way my stomach dips in on itself when I lay on my back.
Come. Let me show you how new my fingers have learned to see.
I am a pool. I am a spring. I am a bowl. I offer milk on my skin.
Come drink at me.
Then we can run hands on foreign bodies and make sense of the new curves and make new the old ones.
It would be new to see the tragic swash of red smeared high up your lip and on to your cheek. It would be new to see strange eyes and strange hair framed below my strange body in the half dark.
Strange pieces with rough to smooth edges making shapes with precise intention on a thousand count canvas. Milk. And Spice. And sweat.
The only thing that is the same would be the knowing. Maybe the desire. Maybe the sound. And the scents.
I was listening.
But was it real? Can you summon your talent at will?
This will evolve.
It will evolve.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
at three a.m.
your breath should be
rounded
rising and falling
peacefully
calmly
like waves on a
smooth beach
but now everything
has fragmented
pixilated and
deconstructed.
your breath is being
dragged through your
lungs in triangles
half shapes without
softly curved edges or
serenity of form
gasps of air so
sharp they could
slit your own
dry throat
from the
inside.
and tears
so cold you
wonder if they're
shards of glass.
please
the next time
your body
becomes a vandal
against the windowpanes
of your mind
please
oh please
remember that
deteriorating
stained glass
can be taken down
from rose windows
by a master artist
and restored
pane by pane
each inch of leading
one at a time.
but repairing
is a process
and a process
takes time.
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
katie is stuck on a blank word document that
is not glaringly white but invitingly blue!
·
katie is watching a cute thing brushing his teeth a half hour’s
walk but a longer time’s preparation and mental strength away.
·
katie is fighting tears for no good reason and would like to fall asleep.
·
katie is wondering where this newfound malaise has come from, and would
like to tell it: I know you are fighting for strength but I will fight for my freedom!
·
katie adores her cute thing’s pixilated mug flashing across the screen.
·
katie is absolutely dreading her inevitable trip home
at some point during the next week and a bit.
·
katie is angry at her *** drive for disappearing on her so gradually
that she didn’t really notice it was gone until it was too late!
·
katie is unsure about the future and thinks that being
psychic might be a really big help with planning her life.
·
katie is not sure what’s going to happen next year, but does
know that it will include more yarn and fresh vegetables.
·
katie is unsure of her relationship status.
·
katie would like to sleep now and forever.
·
KATIE IS AFRAID OF HURTING PEOPLE.
·
katie is never going to start working today.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 1:15 PM UTC
"Mysterious reflections of a buzzing mind"
~
Musical notes unfold the edges of days
Colors stitched together
Collapsing in symmetrical branches
Tilting on sunlit leaves
Copper and crimson leaking from the crisp pleats
The world is dancing inside distance
Lost between the dusk of life
Yesterdays linked to endings
Swirling in chocolate cinnamon latte
Stripped in honey dreams
Shall I breath in sky fragments
Steaming from diamond blood
Stained on the fabric of enchantment
You can see dimensional forests
Reflecting from Indigo pupils
Curved inside the spiral of a pixilated soul
Carved in silver ribs
Spinning in fractal clavicles
There is a myth
Waiting . . .
Trimmed with tasty figments
Pressing itself into a prism
Go on
Touch the pulsing linear of this hive
Its alive like breathing braille
A tapestry of delicious language
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
In carnage memories mourn their loved ones
Rage boils over the top of the cooking ***
And genocide fits only the ideologies mad men
People
Are not
Good
To each other
We
Create policies
Supporting a mind
So twisted
So dark
So far gone
The only
Light to
Reach it is
A spark from
A gun of
A Revolution
How did humanity grow so weak
To turn so quickly to hate through violence?
How does humanity not see in the
Flickering eyes of the dead our communion?
How does humanity not feel the screams
That echo silently below our trembling feet?
The past
Is now present
The fight
Has a new face
Bullets are
Pixilated
Transformed
Ordered &
Backordered
On sale at
Half - Price
When bought
In Bulk
There is no message
That has not yet
Been said
There have been marches,
Rallies, songs, poems,
Dances, deaths, burnings, battles,
Readings, money making, publishing,
Shooting, knifing, bleeding, gouging,
And destroying all in the name
Of the message
And as the naked children
Of Eden weep -
Their home once flourishing,
Flagrant, lined with grass speckled
With crystalline dew -
Smells now of smoldering
Grey plumes of poisonous maroons
We,
We humanity,
Show no shame
In our pressed suits
Or clear magazines or golf carts
Or gold plated teeth
We have forgotten
Humanity
For the pleasure
Of our own
Selfishness stinks
Like diamonds
And fresh bread and
Nail Polish
Time
Does not
Care for
Us
Yet we
Care so deeply
For It
Time cares for us
Like we care
For the ant
Or the fly who buzzes
And we swat away
Without hint of an emotion
The wind blows
As the first rain of
Spring starts to sprinkle
On the cobble stones
Of a city spared
For their branded cowardice
The eyes blink
The clouds dissolve
The moon cracks for
One last time
As the
Fading music
In a
Near-by cafe
Comes to a dry
Empty
Silence
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
Electronic microscopic
unlimited data storage
reprogrammable detachable
secure and hidden
in a cute red ribbon.
It holds some files that might make you cry your eyes out.
Photos of dead things and living things one after another.
Pixilated imagery redefines your minds third eye
and its natural production of dimethyltryptamine
its very mean
to think that death
smells good
in mass.
Sensory data, delete.
Forget about it child
your too young to think
its crazy, and abnormal
don't be abnormal, it is dangerous
to be too free because in freedom
you can become a little dumb
loose your mind
forget what living is.
Go plant a flower or a tree
take a walk sometime
its healthy
to move.
Because you talk about how stagnate society is getting wail you sit there every day out of your mind exploring something you cant even see or feel. It's really silly to try to get something out of nothing, but data.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC