White skies with crows and jays all flying
to and fro, so tired, fro and to,
And all this low-fi screaming to and fro
these screens so black and green and
so rainbow, sometimes still
they make us black and blue.
No peace. A confederacy of custards,
crapping in the sun, faith in dooming seethe,
wielding a lost sword in a parade.
Other days there's doxxing in the dark,
dreaming of the days gone by on horseback
bronze beneath the sun, stiff and free.
Stiff as you can get on a pedestal.
Petting your mouse.
Stroking your trackpad.
Jerking your joystick.
Denying you're aroused.
Meanwhile on the mall the other mice
swarm. From the crevices of every
cave and catcalling cell these kids
come crawling and crying crazy crazy
crazy shit. No wonder we're done saying no.
No wonder we're done not saying no.
No wonder we're dying.
No wonder we're not done dying.
Either way who knows anymore.
You know who'd get it?
Simone de Beauvoir.
I'm still so sorry for the
puppies beneath the sun
screaming bug-eyed vendetta
fun screeching cat-claw skyward
peeling back the sun
Tumbling, troubling
peeling back the history
trembling, doubling
the herstory, the new story.
It's here. It's queer.
It's praying for robots, for the aliens, for cows.
It's nearer than ever before.
WE ARE NOT MEN.
We are not women either.
I am nothing, I am everything.
Self-care swords and ticky-tocky whacks
Tweeting a demented tune
cuz we don't have no faith in "facts"
Pronoun shields and me-too spatters,
seeking, ever seething seeking
an identity that matters.
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