The Digital Reign

Before my screaming-skull chariot took flight toward Angel City,
I prepared to let alibis pound their way through licorice wires.
Unfortunately, the siren song of the Digital Age
Crawled through the back of my earlobe, and stripteased to the sound of synthetic maracas.
It's crystalized liquid lingerie entice the rat in me
To take a front row seat in the Laser Cabaret.

In there, human errors and accomplishments alike live forever
Through an empty cell that sits atop your desk.
Feuds and heartaches can last a lifetime.
Women stay beautiful forever, and age is as real
As foxes blanketed by newspaper bombs.
Men can finally shield their selves in pornographic attire,
And be as lonely as a nationless army.
Because we're all just looking for love,
And can be found by straining an eye for
Someone always dressed in their Sunday best, whose self-made mask never comes off.
Polished skeletons congregate at the Laser Cabaret.


The Digital Age is an illuminous stripper,
Clad in a chrome-black electric night gown.
She dances atop my desk, recites an owner's manual,
Entangles me in a seasick film, and licks my cheeks with photographs.
She's a lusting hound, her head illuminous with a headpiece of outlets.
Her eyes are cellophane cigarettes, her lips are two inflated dueling freeways.
Her hair is a volatile void of circuitry, and her breasts are a pair of heaving crystal screens.
Spectacles made of summer love interests, earrings like a hypnotic napalm fire.
She has been birthed in a bed of corporate men's used condoms,
And she live, thriving ubiquitously in our nursing, love-depraved hearts.
She's come to entangle us in a tattered sea inhabited by the seven deadly sins
With the siren song of want/need and information.

I remain enticed by the Digital Age's electrical lap dance,
Sucking on her sugar-coated tits that house toxic inks.
"Is that a feeble, delicate wire running down my chest?
Are those lips concealing high-voltage fangs that kiss the back of my neck?"
The Digital Age has us all in it's Cabaret,
Some of us more committed attendees than others.
Some of us become it's highest paying customers,
And the majority receive a chance in intercourse with its clientele.

My distaste for the Digital Age grows with every click and image,
But her dance arouses me beyond mere temptation.
We begin our dance of exceeding lust and engage in our own form of intercourse.
As abruptly as we begin, she looks into my eyes and grins,
Revealing her electrical fangs, and thus her ulterior motives.

Slice! Slice in through my spine,
And soak up all you can for your shamed couture!
White paralysis slips its way through my digital carapace
And leaves its corpse on her bedroom floor!
She stands smiling cruelly on a throne of chords
And lets the oceans clash amd quarrel through the mesh of her hair.
Her swelling hooks wrap around me like a malleable seabreeze,
Legs gnashing at the sight like a sumptuous teen.
You can't wrap your wrists around a digital neck
Or scratch at its pixelated face to save your own.
The Digital Age has come to silence and homogenize
And let its rats congregate and devour their selves.