the final yell isn’t the pain
sleeping deep in the entrails
it is the fear of plastic, antennae, and neon lights which lies behind the eyes
the fear of the end of the day
when immortality is yet again sold to us
for peanuts
in black boxes with blue light
under the rain of pixels which torment our
senses
with spandex and cardboard words carefully polished
and that wide sound meant to cover
the hopelessness of remaining unknown
the terror inflicted by the abyss of feeling the happiness of finally reaching
-at the end of our body’s passage through the treacherous tunnel of history -
an age of satiety
in which the the escape to the dream
has become the ultimate cure