Rendered as a denial of service, I’ve been hoarding man
uscripts like I hold
evenings alone – untampered, unseen, unwanted
silence. Do you kill your
darlings? Do you let them slip the
echo, breach? I’m running
guarded for the inevitable heat death of the
empires and Achilles so I can be
render my heel immortal. I would
ride to Mysia, deliver my scribe,
enter anew world that does not want me.
– Aaron Kent
The wound is deep in the circuit’s breach;
the wound will not go away. We dwell in it.
Flip the switch on cyber warfare in your mind.
One one side of the wound, we write, drawing
blood in which to bathe for eternal youth.
We ride on bright amniotic lightning.
The far side of the wound is darker, bruised
an orchid purple from endless worrying.
Here the drone armies whirr conspiracy.
One agency is hoarding exploits against you.
Another firewalls off your best laid plans.
You see how we tear the sutures, scratching?
The wound is buried far from algorithm’s reach;
we dwell within the wound and will not go away.
Close the loop, and let the current scream.
Send out your little machines on virus limbs.
Somewhere, a host will take to the infection.
We need every kind of sickness to be healed.
– Robert Peake