Social media users are diagnosed as suffering from mood swings. Users are subjected to symptoms of epilepsy nightly. Each treatment hits us as a blinding white light wherein lies our genius.
To embrace our own psychic carnage & be content with the content we create with all five of our senses. See, hear, touch the words — instinctually inhale the inebriating essence.
Don’t concentrate. Or you’ll make pulp out of the fiction & have to search between the sentences to see where you left off.
Be a garage-mechanic poet. Let your audience feel the sweat in your voice, your weeping guitar sweeping the steamy streets clean so lovers grope hands & double glance at busted fenders.
The dirt is under your nails & the clairvoyance in your eyes.
You won’t sleep. What I want is for someone to listen but that makes the platitudes harder to bear. You mask being “Rude” which is an amalgam for rudimentary, punching the keys, crunching out even more updates (or lies) or success stories or family pictures in front of food.
This gives you every reason to be on Facebook sober. You do not want to incriminate yourself! Stand sentry.
“I had it perfect before.” Is the after-taste of every post you type. Followed by I know I can get it back. Stop posting. Face the word. The taint of idolatry.
The posts twist & grind & hammer out a story for the brain so your voice goes straight for your heart. Uprooting content content bellows the insides & out comes the struggles of the word that goes back through ages to a single chord in our brains. A beacon to touch. The purity of raw interactivity so intense the body literally must react!
