he awoke to the sound of his cb squawking, an incessant chant, through the flaring static:
old cars buried halfway in the mud
the urgency of this message was enough to jar him, even if it was impossible to decode. so, thought he,
this is what the future looks like:
information ad nauseum, a disembodied message trying so very hard, yet, because of it's very cryptic nature, not hard enough, to be communicated.
language has been reduced to the arbitrary system of symbols and subtext that it always has been, always was, always is: we are looking at things in all their natural and unflattering glory, finally
no more well-composed fluffery, trickery in verse, lilting songs or frantic lullabies
if you flinch, you miss it
and that's the worst
old cars buried halfway in the mud
the future is random
and expected
entropy chaos and entropy
again and again
we fall another rung and settle like mongoloids orphaned after one bowl of porridge and a contant/endless cycle of shit-eating
cuz something about the scent
still makes them drool
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