Young folks talking: Who will help us?
During the day they press down bent signs into the earth – made from an image scanned.
Scheming in shades of crimson, clouds and cerulean.
Meanwhile, their nights are paved in absinthe,
sitting around a screen that plays, cuts, and records
the senseless ramblings of those whose
clothes are bathed in glycine detergent:
The zeroes sit on couches, in rows and trap their blankets in airtight hugs. They
live in homes with slipshodden shelves and wallets that mar their owners in doubt. After
a Monday fat with blue, the zeroes unwind by sinking into their uncontrollable bed lust and reciting their credit card numbers as they fuck.
Hope gets them on their feet, out of bed.
This hope sleeps in the tall tales that trail from between the teeth of the demigods.
LIVE: on screen the demigods battle to defend their decrees. “The sour bawling of men shall end/ Chronic bigotry is its own dysentery.”
Observing creatures present and those zeroes, millions of miles away, pine at voluminous promises of protection and grandeur. Each demigod tries to hide their beefy sins by means of other sins, attempting to eclipse eyes from the absences, the stitches, their videos of group masturbation.
The red ones grew up with whitewashed picket fences and the blue ones played in the alleyways with the street kids. Even so, they both hiss and fizz in a mauve amalgam of sordid untruths.
The blue ones try to write down their fictions
but the letters can’t stick,
the red ones’ letters’ sink through the opposite side of the page,
gooey ink sticking onto the cherry finish.
In spite of their differences, the two kinds of demigods both know:
Control was the vision and hubris was the answer.