Adrenelise desensitise.

ADRENALISE DESENSITISE.
$neak.

'Escape the mundane monotony of consciousness before it's too
late.....
The last disjointed message I received.
Click. Fade.
We're alone together on planet discard. A sold out world spins
erratically to the sound of childhood lullaby's.
Zeros and ones mutate behind steel eye lids. We rust in our sleep while
technology moves on, oblivious to our plight.
Intravenous drip dot com. Bruised skies, battered by lack of attention,
spill over dreary towns battered by depravity and ignorance. The
futures wired. The wires are crossed. No one cares.
VOTE FOR ME!
I DON'T CARE!
We chose cyber because cyber was erasable.
Stop! Pause!
We continue.
And on quiet nights we open our eyes. Screaming in real time to the
sound of....
Another night, another bulletin, another foreseeable disaster in the
corner of my living room. Is it real or is it MTV?
Consider yourself desensitised.
Women and children first.
Walk. Don't run!
We stand silent amongst the wails of the living. Cowards without
causes, stone faced and muted in our lack of real interest. Plug me in.
I need affection. A digital, single rose can live forever but the scent
of static screen leaves me immune to the beauty within. Haven't we been
here before? Wake up and smell the roses.
Syncopated, mutilated, dilated.
They woke up on channel zero. I satisfy my urge to be indifferent by
waking up asleep.
'I want to grow up dead', said the little girl to her wired parents as
they shot pixels from screens.
With joy-sticks in sweaty palms they turn their twisted heads and spew,
'It can be arranged'
Nothing from nothing equals nothing. She could be my something, My
something or other in a not much world. www.notmuch.com. Instead we
grew up apart. I plug her in from a thousand miles away and surf her
mind in search of.... nothing in particular.
Pre programmed parents scornfully acknowledge the lack of rebellion
apparent in their oh so 'switched off' offspring.
My Mother said, 'To get things done, better walk around with a loaded
gun'
And Ziggy plays guitar... in a tribute band that celebrates the
downward spiral of talent. Plastic pop perversion for the sterile
generation. We chose subliminal beats for subversive space cadets.
Catastrophic drum patterns nailed us to the ground with every thud.
Everybody needs something to die for. My pragmatic heart pumps boiling
blood to toxic limbs that cut a sway through smoke filled air. Pollute
me with you love, suffocate me with distrust, discard my dying
youth.
Those were the days we should have died!
'Always' ends tonight.
Be my 'for always'.
Dead on Monday, revived by Friday, re-wired by the weekend.
Fade out.
We buried the T.V. beneath the glare of C.C.T.V.
Big brother saw it all. How were we to know? A single tear trickles
slowly down the zooming lens only to be obliterated by automatic
wipers. Mechanical emotion swiped away in the blink of an infra red
eye.
The Earth woke up to it's final day.
We slept through the bulletins that flickered on remote screens six
feet under ground.
And just like my dreams the screens went black.
Fade.
And what if heaven is my idea of hell? Shiver. I inadvertently walk
over my own grave.
Shadows lurk ever longer over fields of lush disease. My worries and
cares slowly ebb towards the horizon as the final rays of the final day
bid a cold farewell to eyes that have only just realised the beauty of
the sunset.
No one cried, cause no one ever did.
The future was set to black. Empty screens reflected in vacant
eyes.
Constantly we hit return in hope of something, anything, nothing.
She sits alone in a different time zone.
She still has one sunset left.
How I envy her despair.
No communication. Love denied.
Flashback to thrashing limbs on narcotic nights. We hit our heads
against brick walls as numb fingers hit plastic keys connected to
servers that refuse to serve. We constantly hit return.
She points a web-cam to the sun and blinds anyone connected with a
frame of earth's last chance...
Above the grave of my slaughtered T.V. the freshly scented kiss of a
solitary immaculate rose strokes the atomic air.
Whispered voices from dust covered years hold me captive beneath a
never ending, moon-starved night.
I want to grow up dead....

Sneak Technique.