Despite my wish in a previous post to simplify and write more concisely, I have extended the poem into quite a long and cluttered structure, with a lot of big words and imagery. I feel that at the stage I am at with the poem, I am still figuring out the best way to arrange each section and fit in all that I want to communicate and reference. That being said, I find it easier to condense writing down as opposed to expanding things out, so a lot of this writing is a bloated and erratic brainstorm that I intend to reel in later down the line. The text that is bold is new writing ideas that I formulated with the help of my friend Ruvi, and the text that isn’t bold consists of what I have already written. I have tried to construct a narrative or continuity that makes sense :

• The poem starts with the idea of a simulation that we know we are in, but we have surpassed the will to care and accepted it
• The next section poses capitalism as an operating system that swallows itself
• The rest of the poem revolves around the cyclical society we live in, and in turn our cyclical echo chambers that are born from living in this system

A study of phantom limbs

Simulated surrealism for a brief remission into pleasure

who cares

the brain can’t tell the difference anyway

let the pulses fire through fleshy(find synonym) corridors in quiet homes

senses seared away, vision taken by glares hotter than the fires burnt in

outside, unapologetically altered and reduced to a stringent mass

a blubbering wreck, blasted by furnaces built for millions

Too used to it, too far gone

Simulated solace with no throne laid upon

just

dirt

____

A garbled message of programmes that don’t compute,

an operating system designed to swallow itself whole and keep feeding

forcing tail into throat and end to start

until nothing remains but a bloody maw outstretched

overextended

____

So what’s the point then?

Live and breathe and perish and be reignited

cup a hand around the flame to keep it burning as long as you can

without fearing the snuff,

the inevitable return to the ground you sprung from,

that you now lay beneath

feeding the next turn of the wheel

____

Ash to ash, wings to charred meat

Torn off the bone by the ravenous disciple who waits meekly for the rebirth to feed

Something about … nurturing the red plume to rip it apart

(Forcing) Ouroborus to chew not swallow

until all that remains is a gaping maw

…that bares bright the bloody remains of self destruction and solipsism

I Want More

More sustenance, more raw material to build up hopes and make hammers to smash them

More time to cater for the undulating wave of progress and placidity