alienation in formation

The mediation of our alienation

seems a separation of the elation of relation

into a resignation of isolation

in an imitation of situation;

linguistic degradation in viral replication

of the fragmentation of symbolic representation

in endless objectification

desert of desolation

our minds in saturation pushed to mutation

adaptations to imagination's constipation

and the dissipation of location in mental gentrification,

the city is a virus of homogenization

in the simulation of true communication

in our monoculture of the mind

filled with lights and neon signs,

an airbrushed air conditioned despair

where eyes stay blinded by the glare

off of the surface gloss and sheen

of the endless hallway cascade of screens

where in formation is the gestation

of leviathan machine

is our integration our assimilation

in our gravitations of habituation?

does the bifurcation of all location

hold the incubation of the empire nation?

language machine virus is in formation

are we the cure or the germination?

has our incarnation been lost in translation?

up on a stage or a screen still lines of separation

the spectacle emitting mental radiation

a cancer spreading entropy's fragmentation

in our monoculture of the mind

filled with lights and neon signs,

an airbrushed air conditioned despair

where eyes stay blinded by the glare

off of the surface gloss and sheen

of the endless hallway cascade of screens

where in formation is the gestation

of leviathan machine

in the labyrinth of infinite regress

the walls keep shifting as we progress

perhaps we are heads in jars,

senses fed by machines

and all we have seen is

the reflective screen

as we remain blinded in our image

by strange archons unseen

primordial flame

remains

within

the space

between

What is sought is a true communication

beyond the marketing of persona

and the agenda of languages' linearity

which sells us a straight line through

the entropy of dead time until it closes our coffin

like it closed our minds to the spectrum of our possibilities

and the ever present dawn of a new day

instead we only saw grey

like images from a 1950's television sitcom.

wake up truman!-

something feels WRONG

are our bodies marching away from our soul's song?

have we remained disembodied heads for too long?

figures without a ground of the infinite ecstatic,

PRIMORDIAL SOUND

herein we find a string in the labyrinth

regress of lies and mirrors that ends up in static.

it's when the signal of chaos jams up the habit

of ego's propaganda

so the third eye can transmit