Fried-out, burnout, punked-out cyberpoet.

Feb 7 02:34 UTC 2001

I used to climb inside myself
take a ride along the neural subways
and admire the expression 
on every ceiling, floor, and wall
that exploded in plethoras of tones and shades
crystallizing, melting, blowing about
in fantastic imagery that recounted
so many stories of long ago.

I would run my fingers and hands
over the rich color.
Swim in it.
Breathe it.
Drink it.
Be lost for a while.
Touch it and move it to my command.

Now, I see the tunnels
stripped
and dirty, muddy, chaotic
graffiti is about.
They are scorched and burning
and smell of so much frying cerebral tissue.
I'd hop on the connecting 'A' train
to see you vendors that sold near the gate
But you oft sold cotton candy
whipped of so much witty, clever reparte
It seemed so alien
and it rarely fed me, nor could it restore
the pathways of my journeys.

It tasted so much like
"You'll never make something this good
and why even try
Notice how it makes you hungrier
but more tired when you eat."
I used to bring in my feedback
of what I thought,
but it never seemed to make it taste different
or to satiate myself.

I suppose I must depart for a while
and take the Transcendental Express.
It's been lovely, and I shall return
But take that cotton candy poetry
and cram it up your ass.