We are all of us
hooked to a hookah,
pressed close against
meshed & changing screens
splicing synapses and
—sharing a distraction—
Some from atop a
mushroom
(cloud)
high and other
asking
who—who
who are you?
when statistically speaking
they’d rather
you know who it is
they are…
And if the caterpillar
already ensconced
is discovered it’s
strung up,
(of course)
discreetly
or blatantly
(but instantly)
In killing transformation…
Some partake
of smoke and mirrors
from the shade of
fan-cooled adulation!
Entrenched within
Motherboard’s
mushroom gills,now—
pressed
pinned
promoted
perennially tied to her
hookah strings…
Spouting fictitious ideologies
so sophomoric
and magically delicious
they are slapped with
FDA approved labels
advising it’s best to:
Eat Me.
Some stay buried
—deep underground—
rooted in rot
favored by
swine
—better with wine—
otherwise known as
fun guy…
or girl, maybe?
It makes no difference.
Not a truffling bit of difference
to thumbnail interaction
with digitized faction.
so long as it’s transcribed
in appropriate type
—that banners
a landscape
—that features
a cat
(or dog)
in priceless, period fashion…
Since we are all of us
hooked to a hookah,
coiling snake-like
from meshed & changing screens,
stunting synapses and
—sharing an addiction—
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