Mating water bugs,
our fingers glide over the screens.
We touch them
as we used to touch each another –
as if behind the glass lay
the Golden Fleece.
Like me, friend me,
my page needs a hit.
No B-cell batteries,
no one got an E in school,
top-grade diamonds start at D.
The Argonauts didn’t trust her either.
I read this scroll showing our
digital tribalism, the virtual duchies,
parakeets peeping in a cage,
pee-ons scrubbing airport urinals.
Is this what we came here for,
to be fleeced for the cure
by the very crooks who poisoned us?
The NSA logs every page we print
as Druidic programmers commune around lattés,
and Gaulish kids with olive picks chase
the Roman pontiff through Macy’s perfume aisle.
Boris Yeltsin has stashed his collection
of Shamrock shake cups in
Westminster Abbey’s billiard room.
Come on, let me get a hit.
Let me get a hit.
I can’t concentrate
for more than five seconds.
I just need another sec
to get what you’re saying,
I’ll need a lot more secs
to start recovering what you stole.
But there’s no telling from the surface
how deep the pool,
and I can’t help it,
just drop the line and reel me in,
I’ll subscribe, I’ll like
whatever you want,
just keep feeding your life’s dream
straight to my cortex,
witchingly viral,
the malware Spandex,
the post-mod convex,
boosting the odd E-O,
the skinny diphthongs, while you smash
English, hide F, N,
hence the trick of the name,
I’m just sick with it all,
I’m dying of you, Influenza R,
the farther we got from Heaven,
“followed” be thy game.
Let me get another hit, another hit,
or else gimme the check, mate,
I gotta get out, get gone,
I’m done with this ancient inversion,
the king, dumb, comes
my will he does,
the snake that lurks in every S,
fluoride in the bumble-gum.
Like me, love me, and be sure to check
this last post for a free coupon code:
the beast will close an eye as you approach,
snickering like a flag on top a mast,
and so shall Medea.
Thor Bacon
.