I:


[T]HEY
      SAY:

so they leave
their celebration
of national pride
on the genocidal
jubilee of colonisation

despite it all
We’re        still        here.
It drives them
   fuckin’ googoobananas.
   All they want is for us
       to go away.

II:


the black-tie arrival of the finance bro shadows over common decency while little Jaime Weiner asks Grok to undress a woman he barely knows.
       she’s shy and reserved and no one has seen her naked since being seen naked became an adult activity attached to an appetite for arousal.
       he sells crypto or insurance or something else deemed valuable while valueless for a living and complains about artists not wanting his AI investments to mow out the meagre monetary remittance they receive for the blood and stress and heart they donate to each project.
       the project exists in spite of itself – a work of passion pressured by penurious pennypinchers to be something it does not want to be but has to in means to justify its spiteful existence.
       existence diluted to the all-mighty dollar and dolls doled digitally for the finger-lickin’ greed unchecked demanding everything they desire undeserved but declared by their birthright.
       a birthright written in unclear legalese leased to the lucky few by intelligent bootlickers lusting for the lasciviousness lawn on the soul of their boot – lunacy maybe but they work in harmony, securing the status to stale the quo.
       the status quo is broken . . . it has been for . . . the longest time
           whooooooooooaaaa oh oooooooohhhhhhh
look at them in their glass towers
looking down at us with a smug
look on their face hoping we don’t
realise that their towers appear fragile through
real eyes locked tight on a grotesque underbelly of
real lies told to hold us in place.
      {somethingsomethingmeme}
          all so they can ask Grok to show them our private parts.

III:


childhood nights tucked in Goosebumps
   R.L. Stine told stories stained to my soul
       scary yet tepid to the world we live in now.
           in lockdown i escaped into the ethos of
               Steven Universe, relishing in lavish
                   declarations of kindness as the core
                       of any welcoming community and yet
                           our overarching society deems it
                               weakness to love thy neighbour.
                                   my neighbour Kaine
                                   called me to the balcony
                               every evening after school to grill
                           my knowledge of Professional Wrestling
                       and Pokémon, excited he could utilise my
                   obsessive hyperfixations in a way that made him
               look smarter to the kids in his grade who saw
           ridiculous childish things as the currency
       to their own personal hierarchy.
   now it’s only numbers
on an imaginary account
that dictate our social
   standings in a world that I wonce
       saw myself as a winner inside.
           the economy doesn’t exist,
               money isn’t real and your job
                   is meaningless in the long run.
                       the fact we forge meaning
                           on the meaningless is an adept
                               failure on our standing as
                                   the planet’s smartest
                                   smartest smartest
                               smartest what though for real?
                           all we need is a fire and a storyteller.

IIII  VI  IV?  FOUR:


so many pee-poll are unhappy / / crappy / / snappy / / sad
   but life goes on    {when will it shup ut!?}
and peep-oil don’t complain / / restrain / / dickbrain / / do—nuthin’
   it’s just how it is     [can we maki et knot!?]
hand eye sup pose {Ginyu Force} that’s why we’re in discord.
                   you meant the chat app? There’s a chat app?
AhWellEyeDontFuckinNoThenButEyeAintDownloadinNeMoreDamAppsKayByeThen.