TerraVision

You talk the universal language
of BO! & Bling, converse in catchphrases
and recite bad movies without thinking.
The idiot box rots your earthly body
radiations reflecting you back at yourself
until you forget everything else that is alive
in this world and begin to die a rusting robot's death,
screws loose in your skull rattling out a gameshow jingle
mingle with fatty oils boiled a million times
by recursive repeats on the same theme: me me me!
Saggy fat machine whose eyes retreat
for all you see is the supreme loneliness of self
played by a trillion different actors.
Solid-state slowly congeals as conveyor-belts of ready meals
pour into the bottomless pit of your nuclear reactor.
Media-ate your precious fire: everyone has learned
an alien language spread wide without wires -
the whole world can speak in these retard bleets
but how many can tune into bird song?
The long forgotten station of buzzing bee?
Who has enough life in their palate to deduce the meaning
of honey? Who has enough power left to break out of
the paper-bag prison called money?

Too few… too few?
Too-wit Too-woo!

Unplug your wrinkled arse from the techno-dance
and remind yourself instead what it is to be human.
A gift from the natural world that you pay less respect
than the bright plastic shit squeezed from hole labelled: Mall
!

Your ears were sung into being like shells washed up by the sea.
Your fingers stretched from mushroomy-nodes to pluck down
fruit from the tree. Your wet round eyes are planets
sculpted by stars. Your nostrils were hollowed by the wind.
The buds of your tongue burst into flower only because figs
are not meant for imagination alone. For imagination alone
is your private sense, the holy ghost you can choose to share
or dance hidden through rainbow night in a cloud body,
your condensing rains between you and the earth
so that mysteries burst like a seedpod
scattering new ideas…

The only technology is nature -
but not all technology is natural.

We slipped on some fruit in the garden -
but we have always been falling,
it is an everlasting dance of interdependent spin,
we are each but a fragment of feather:
the life wheel share
is the wing.