Richard Fox
Tech Tock
seems to me we’re out of luck. Out of time. and Out of date.
Clearly, I heard calling from the rooftops. through the
satellite dishes, through the marshall amps,
unanimous calls for a reset. Back to the stone age. Back to
the copperwire age. Back to the telephonic ringtones
of the soul.
The best things in life are deepfried
gemstones. The ones in smart
gadgets. Life affirming affirmations. Not even facebook.
The next facebook. The facebook of robot lovers
and cartesian soldiers. The dynamite magnates,
the overlords, the geniuses behind the sellout.
I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this.
But I ran out of airtime.
It’s a figure of speech in a new kind of language.
I got tickets to the sellout, I picked them up for a steal.
Everything you will ever want now has to be downloaded
from amazon rainforest. From the google jungle.
Using your genetic makeup applied without the help
of laboratory animals. Who are dead. As God is dead.
As democracy is dead. They all died
in the sellout.
It was a global redcarpet auction event attended not only
by the rich and the famous. But by every living being
with a coded stub, hooked into their heart at birth.
Planted there by extraterrestrial monkeys. Like in the movies.
I was there. I took pictures for the papers.
With a graphite pen stole your hearts, and
sold all the stubs for peanuts. What else could I do?
They are coming. And we are out of time.
Out of luck. And out of date.
I looked up on the internet. Saw all the stars had turned to dust
Around a giant masquerading wheel of flame. Every metal petal.
Every plastic vase in which our dreams were cast, are dashed.
Shattered into a handful of magnetic flares that lead the ever
hopeful on – global village idiots carving out their plans
in biomass. In scree. Along indecipherable journeys
between points that cannot join. You cannot join the sellout.
All the tickets are dead.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow on 21 April 2022