you who rule with an iron smile.
The voice of a fucking fool
enfolds the world.
See how everything is getting
better and better?
That's your magic at work.
We are free to be possessed.
Free to be processed.
Free to simulate joy
as we walk in your pages.
Free to get fucked by robots
as the moon spirals down
on the earth in a final equation.
Strange how the smaller celestial body
takes over in death.
Strange how the dust of ages
is shaped by a gust
meaning nothing at all.
All the fallen idols
still attract worshippers.
After all, they are on their backs
now, they can be touched.
The flocks communicate
with decay. They are proud
to sacrifice their consciousness
to your computer generated
syntax, the prison bars
of your thrilling paragraphs.
We need the sound of your asshole
to fornicate with our souls.
You are our favorite whipping boy,
our favorite proud reflection.
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