“A book is a loaded gun in the house next door”

Seashells singing in our ears
100 percent coverage
It’s Monday again, mate
Low battery; please recharge

Wall screens      cascading windows
Computing devices embedded in everyday objects
His master’s voice            harvest of data
Inhabiting ambiguous transparency


Participating       passive
Speaking the script, inflamed
With disgust and desire
Throw open our archives 

To the firemen
Bare our throats
To the hypodermic tongue 
of the Mechanical Hound

cyborg singularity blues

Sky sown with dark seed
clouds curdle      horizons tarnish
bitter rain drowns the rusting sun

machine becomes man
animated by operating system

Merciless routine
institution without end
pattern without reason

Fans spinning a tinnitus hum
a whimpering hymn
to celebrate the drying-up of time