sandstorm fragments

There there. there you are, Prometheus.

When will you sloop off, anyhow, with your pronouncements?

You fucked up.

Once you gave us fire, the world was warm and communal.
Then you gave us electric light, and we stayed up well into the night
penning our darkest, most secret and poignant ideas,
all those that were laughed away in desperate terror of private society,
in the fascism of the social paradigm. Smile, you motherfucker.

So you came last season with a new gift, the television, to do
away once and for all with the cinema, that mighty conglomerator
Western mankind. Television. We all separated into our rooms,
our couches, our television dinners and iv sacs and coloscopy bags
and bathrobes and grimy three days old underwear and watched
images of our better selves broadcasted bright across
the living room floorboards.

We began to live vicariously, or to rust bright in
the bleaching rays of Hiroshima, bent tranquil and placified-icated
by myriad white faces and polos, gentle scenes penned by the
bloated Bronte advocates of magnificently overwrought
marriage spectacles, of the ostentatious birthday fiascoes
of the nouveau riche bourgeois bitches, of the immaculate terror
the nightmare society of an american high school extended and dubbed
indefinitely and forcefed to the gibbering goblin youth of a
Thousand countries.

Is this our final solution? The politicians finally got
it, then, the only real hindrance to their eternal dominance
was never any external scapegoat they could rustle up
to distract the masses from the shitty state of
their own lives, rather, the politicians greatest new battle strategy was
to merely

merrily inoculate the masses against any image of beauty,
the urge to chase it, to create it, to recognize it, to recognize what is not it.

They watched Daphne fleeing in the forest, and the moment
she stopped as a spruce they covered her in false snow and ornaments,
plastic birds and tiny business cards of local real estate,
pizza delivery and telephone psychics.


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