Borrow The Indifference: An Original Poem by Keith Ferrera

          

  Prelude:
— Mail to be delivered by telepathy in 18 months. They are beta testing it now. V0.86s only bug to speak of is that files larger than 100MB make the recipient breakdown in tears. V0.97ALPHA fixes that bug and only at 1.2GB does the recipient start to drool and recite screenplays from old Kaptain Kangaroo episodes. RC 1.0 will almost certainly come with disclaimer…
With the speed at which the Available Information Age is traversing, intercourse, by touching forefinger-to-forefinger, is not too far away. Japan, as always, is on the forefront of that technology. In fact, thumb-to-forefinger auto erotica SNAPS, as they are being referred to, are already being sold in Manga shops and Body Alt Clinics in New Tokyo and the open-ware downloaded on most Distributed Hash Trackers.
Short for Sexual Narcissistic Auto-Erotic Pleasure Signalization, Fentanyl use has decreased sharpish since the 3 months prior for the “New Nod”. Outlawing their commercial use in the U.S. has only made them more prevalent and SNAPS modders have turned into the equivalent of a back alley abortionist… or abolitionist, depending on which wing you cower under. Ironically though, most other “illicit” scheduled substances are no longer an issue since they, being only a substitution for prolonged orgasm, can't compete with the real thing.
Snapping your fingers in a Jazz club used to pronounce your hip appreciation for the artist. Now, so-called, Mole Kids pop and lock, genuflect and gesticulate to MOOG lines and compressed beats at 24 hour Stations situated intra-bowery, underground…
with raw fingers… oozing…
Clasping hands, they hail one another with the credo, and subsequent manifesto, “Under and Out,” (as they Soul Shake, finger clasp, abrazo, and snap their fingers back on the release, taking care to firmly graze each others SNAPS) choosing to stay underground and riding the outer edge of frequency and technology, jacking whatever they can.
In these OutRiders, Morrison's Ghost still haunts, moving their souls closer still to —The End— through these depraved and vagrant halls. It’s beauty only eclipsed by it’s deadly consequences.
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(…your vacunt privy gaze pulls back from that ancient, soporific videoo tube… )
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The abstract nightmare that careens beyond the the double-ought Decade is beyond our beatific imaginings

All the children are on Serotonin Re-uptakes…

Them dementia prone nostalgics are driving them absolutely mad

…and their parents are on Atypical Neuroleptics

Hippies close in and infect us with PTSD

You selfish Fucks!

God is sitting in a virtual reality bus
going insane from the never-ending slaughter film

Crying with me

He realizes this…
is the end,
but is too disturbed
to stop the rotisserie

His tears are desperate,
but… he hears us not
His pain is deep
This is his fault

He is forsaken
He has forsaken himself

The sunbeam in his eye is glinting,
glistening in his wet orb
He sees, but
forgets his transgressions

We are lost on his dandruffed scalp
We are the plague on his skin

He is alone and praying to give us peace
We are unable to hear myths
The parameters are too great
The rain falls intermittently throughout history

We gag on our monumental discrepancies
We fight and coerce one another
We have lost touch with choice
We devise broken divisions of mistrust and abandonment

We strike and miss the totality of the struggle

We curse our name
We bow to horrific non-fiction
Grabbing the neck in the mirror
we strike with irrelevant dogma

We curse our loins
leaving our seed's innocent child in perpetual assault
Destroy our name
In-The-Name-Of

Worship confused men
and damn the others
The sand falls through the fingers
and we hear not the wind

The angry scream
cried
fellowships with ignorance and lays waste
to friendship and brotherhood

We are cloth and are clean
We are matter and exist
to balance anti-matter



We are one and only



We cannot bring ourselves to the end of it
until we
borrow the indifference of the sea
to the shore


Solace is a place beyond truth
Truth is irrelevant
We are a lost species
waiting for a blackhole to swallow us with ambiguity

We know ourselves backwards
We revel in it—
Just In!
“…Saccharin Bravery and Rehabilitative Economic Sanctions
will be the Death of Glory and Capitalistic Socialist Neo-Conservatist Democracy…”
More At 11!

Lose trust in a caricature
Dance silly to the Honky-Tonk Soul
It will glitch and glow to hyper-sensitive collective mediocrity
and abandon itself to television opinion and categorical news

Fishing will only happen on the radio
A wheel well will
collect mud as designed,
Unknowingly

Darwin is proved and exonerated
We kick the wheel
We practice inconsequentials
We are proud and relevant


And still the pain falls



It falls
and washes the pride from our lips
We jabber on
and wait for the first to fall

When he whispers that gentle command
He gives us,
graciously,
our last deep breath


She runs her fingers through our hair


One. Last. Time…


She kisses our neck
and divides time
Our eyes closed
we see nothing

We hear
a timid and thoughtful love uttered
She lingers
that moment like…

Unlike…


ever before



(Someone imagines a kind scene playing out on a stage)


Gleeking a final time
and brings reality to a complete and final retreat

In that finality, the shadows live a lifetime
of doubt, just as we had

Pulling their void faces over our eyes
Nothing fingers clutch
sun cast lies
and don't cry out

Fuck! It's never over

The back becomes the front
and polarizes the insignificance

The poem only ends the words,
but the thoughts continue to prevail and destroy the living mind

It's only inheritance;
Schizophrenia and unrequited Love
Not enough and way too much

Not worthy of the delicious completeness
Not born of Love, but constant reconciliation
of abandoned hope and futile adolescent grip
The suction of single purpose to open warmth



We cannot bring ourselves to the end of it…

until we

borrow the indifference of the sea to the shore

Solace is a place beyond truth

Truth is Siren, singing us to shipwreck

We are a lost species
waiting for the singularity to swallow our ambiguity

- Written By 'Siva de Ferrera [a.k.a. Keith Ferrera]

Copyright © 2020 'Siva de Ferrera (a.k.a. Keith Ferrera)