How you lost yourself in the wire labyrinth,
dark plastic and green tea and blue screens,
how you drowned yourself in drugs and data,
downed pills for the headaches
and found thrills for the dead days
the afternoons that pressed down from sunny skies
like an avalanche of pillows and silence
surrounding you and she - taijitu -
the supposedly light and the supposedly dark,
huddled behind the crumbling arch of the front door
and the sad thin light of the net curtains.
And how this deadness of now began then
as throats on fire with romance and creativity
became eyes burnt to fluorescent embers
hidden deep in dirty cities, high and wired
and roaming abroad in the astral of the web
bodies hunched and still in front of screens,
tended occasionally, like pharonic mummies,
organs quiescent in jars, skin translucent.
Faraway music in the deafening quiet of the stone tomb,
as your souls wandered in the Western Lands -
you linked dead hands and sent your living spirits
blindly into bodiless tomorrows.