I’ve seen you. Well, only a part of you. Only a slice. Only an angle. Only the surface. Absent was warmth. Absent was texture, But still there was you. 2D You. It’s an approximation You’re not really as The machine sees it, But something close enough, At least for how I Use the material. I wish you were really her, But I can easily settle for 2D You. And you’re still there, But you’re not really there Because you’re frozen In ones and nothings. And you will age. And you will suffer. And you will die, Which is why you can’t compare to 2D You.

There’s a door in the hallway that is locked from within And the curious face is such a fountain of sin When the focusing Iris condenses the space And the slice of the victim is accrued by the Face. Celluloid’s burning up because my keyhole matte Exposes all the filth that dwells behind the door. That dwells behind the door. That dwells behind the door. There’s a room in the Pentagon where people decide How to spin growing numbers of vet suicides. At least I think it exists because the comfort provided By conspiracy fantasies will help me Abide in revealing powers given to me by my keyhole matte ‘Cause I can change the world. Yeah, I can change the world. I won’t change the world. I think I’ll just lie down. The waiter’s bored at 3 am in the hotel And from that fellow’s room a noise begins to swell. His boredom shreds away at privacy’s resolve Until he witnesses and yearns to get involved. I can watch you forever with an editing swipe. I can change implications by the frames that I type And I can laugh at the prospect that I’ll never be seen When I’m framing the footage on the ebony Screen. Gurgling from the innards of my keyhole matte Is a solitary man doing something wrong. Doing something wrong. Doing something wrong.

He left something behind at the hardware store. It wasn’t his glasses or his dignity. It was a geographic position And it got beamed into infinity. The rays from the satellite went to A harried NSA bureaucrat Who assumed that the information Was revealing a terror attack. Metadata Paints a portrait of his habits as he spends willingly with his Diner’s Club card. Metadata Will be used by the Feds to eventually make sure his body is charred. She booked her Yoga class online Because she’s healthy and efficient. She didn’t think much of it. Like that information is significant. That’s what she thought at the trial As the evidence showed her path Ensuring her criminal identity Partially because of that Yoga class. Metadata Paints a portrait of her habits engaging the convenience of the Internet Age Metadata Gets her wriggling from the outside in the comforting confines of a government cage. We carry on like it’s nothing Because the eyeballs are invisible. Sure they can’t peer in the mental, But they can see into the physical. They can prove our intent from our purchases. Who needs twelve buckets of fertilizer? Innocence based on your spending From the taxpayer’s supervisor. Metadata Paints a portrait of our habits careening toward our Orwellian fate Metadata Is the way we can kill all potential unrest in our glorious state.

There came a laugh from the high collared man as he stumbled around in the pitch. Eyeing the glass of the centipede past, he indulged in the Belgium of kitsch. Foam came out the corners of his mouth and receded like a quivering eel. Tried to lap up the freedom, just to vomit the sorrow. Speaking in tongues to the funeral fire ‘cause the fungus is now in his brain. Mold on the roof of his mouth and the tooth that came loose ‘cause of general disdain. Dirty epithets of a painful bent emanate from his pretty little mouth, Spilling out on the walkway, congealing fat in the freezer. He’s holding back the tears, so salty like the Dead Sea. A baby crowning from his navel points his wicked eye towards me. Children are cheerful when he comes along. He’s a surrogate for fantasies. Parade around town like a liberal clown ‘cause he’s found a profound sense of peace. I regret the days I never spent with my sons and daughter doing meth. It’s too bad they’re in juvie, trading handjobs for safety.

Sweet paranoia fuels the waking hours with an urgent tension. The screams of duty spawn a million mouths too hideous to mention. Can’t you hear that train a-comin’? Hit the ground and start a-runnin’ ‘Cause the hand of fate’s summoned Softly. If you don’t feel pins a-prickin’, You will drown as the plot thickens. One mistake and your soul is stricken Awfully. Sweet paranoia turns the characters that move me into heroes. They choose between an arbitrary set of tiny ones and zeroes. And I watch the heightened fiction Filled with witty fightin’ diction. Can I make a bold prediction This season? I can hear the sirens wailin’ And the systematic failin’. Call Russia and let’s go sailin’ To treason. Men made out of gingerbread are fucking on the lawn again In suits of black and aviator sunglasses they say “Come with us and you’ll be safe. We’ll walk through fields of candy canes And mandatory minimums are no concern today.”

Ignore the rooms that seem mysterious. Master leads you to imperious Anomalies ‘cause you belong to me. Noose and collar form professional Services that are confessional. A parody ‘cause you belong to me. I could strike a slave and feel marvelous. Opening palms with my artfulness. The faces all the same. No one but yourself to blame. Kill yourself. Transcend the physical. All other options are despicable. A surety ‘cause you belong to me. Breach Nirvana with a tommy gun, Paperclips and lots of chewing gum. A fantasy ‘cause you belong to me. Centuries of debt are hanging over you. Take a step back to a sober view. The bondage built you up Even though your soul’s corrupt. Ownership is fleeting like the wind. All possessions watch how you have sinned So readily ‘cause you belong to me. Objects, tchotchkes, crap and souvenirs. Their screams of violence fall like human tears. Can you believe that you belong to me?

Broken dreams of a rainbow world Where identity is the capital you trade in every Day into night like the shifting lungs of Consumer joy breathing out a shallow wind of vast Contempt for us like the screaming mass of the tumormen Overpopulating all the cities Venal spawn of the excrement seems kinda fun So I’ll travel to that golden son Society faggot, society faggot, society faggot Let’s get married Society faggot, society faggot, society faggot Let’s join the army Society faggot, society faggot, society faggot Let’s adopt a Chinese baby Society faggot, society faggot, society faggot Let’s go shopping! Miserable like a sitcom wife in the Seventh season hoping this is not the end of her career It’s true they discard you fast When the trend has passed which is why the sisterhood must stay Ahead of the game in a constant race With the demagogues of the rank and fickle fashion industry We govern all the taste and import the slaves To make the garments with their kids Paralyzed too afraid to act ‘Cause I have no tact navigating all the arguments Against my styles it’s so scandalous that a Vandal’s piss could contaminate my shroud of luxury I don’t wanna think about all the Bodies needed to create my morning coffee glass I wish I knew when I took a wife From the basic life I’d become the dumb consumer class

You tried and tried to destroy my mind With your words of darkness and shit And soon you clawed through my stoic façade And you cast me into the pit. I burned and yelped for the days you helped To find a loving rapport, But your romance was cancerous Right to its blighted core. Unfuck my heart. Scoop up the dump that you took on it And wipe it down To remove your scorn. Unfuck my soul. Fill up the holes that you left behind With your razor cock Leaving my flesh torn. The way you mate is manipulating Gullible tongues of fools. Your countenance of false penance Turns strong men into tools. The pure holocaust of your lies are embossed On the paper of my brain. Won’t you hear my pleas and reverse your deeds Before I go insane? You’re a sociopath and Sylvia Plath Would have some choice phrases for you. She’d say she’d known despair but that’s nothing compared To the vile things that you do.

Centuries of the laughing have drained you Now the feeling of guilt entertains you Scores of the phantom whispers will flood your head You’ll never find peace as long as we’re all dead. ‘Cause you know we’re gonna haunt you. Your ego split into a million sins. Your penitence has yet to begin. You chose a life that we know is not allowed. You should enjoy it ‘cause this is forever now.

Hell is gray. The fire is fluorescent and it buzzes like a pestilence of flies. Windowless, boardrooms and water coolers dot the stagnant shitscape of the skies. The Guddreon is a fortress at the center of your throat designed to filter out the truth we try to hide. Your overbearing weakness to submit to circumstance is what the Guddreon does to keep us all inside. Gravity. It’s amplified in here because they want your flesh tolls to the ground. Fell it squirm soon all your skin will shudder past your feet into a sea of brown.

I’m so disappointed in you. You went seven weeks without the dry heaves. You thought they were physical symptoms, but once the stressful period ended, they never manifested again. You then realized that the nausea you felt was all in your head. You didn’t know what was worse. Secretly you were praying that the source of the sickness was some sort of ulcer. Instead it appears that you’re so fucked in the head that your anxiety compels you to meet every morning with a chorus of retching. And I thought you were on the path to normalcy. But nope, you’re mentally ill, which is far uglier than an ulcer because there is no cure and people will not so secretly see you as a burden. Those disdainful eyes leering with a combination of pity and disgust. You know the look because it’s the same one you give to the homeless. You have become very aware of how people react to you and it makes you Queasy. A motherfucker gets Queasy. A motherfucker gets Queasy. A motherfucker gets Queasy. A motherfucker gets, a motherfucker gets, A motherfucker gets, a motherfucker gets Queasy. Why do you react this way? Everyone else seems to cope just fine. Why are you so weak? Why were you built with brain that forces you to vomit under even the slightest pressure? You know your roommates can hear you every morning. At first they wer concerned for your well-being, but now they’re just irritated by the sound of your spewing guts. You can sense their ire. You apologize and the say ‘no problem’, but you can tell it’s half-hearted and coloured by the weariness that comes from living with you. Your body’s definitely trying to tell you that you’re not cut out to live in this world and the disease will strengthen its resolve and created an abdominal push so strong that you will become inside out. As the blood explodes from your oral cavity you have a profound sense of rightness and the bowels flying from your moth belie the gravity of your epiphany.