Blue Light Beholden

Today, nobody gives a damn

about what's right before their eyes

unless it's advertiser-friendly,

filtered and digitized —

stuffed into a miniature,

rectangle aspect ratio

and filled to the brim,

practically mangled, with shareholder fellatio.

Perhaps the very worst part of it all

is that it doesn't really seem to matter

that all of the "content," that we "crave,"

is mostly pitiful, substanceless chatter.

It's a world on a treadmill

of episodic vomit,

a chaotic stroll around the same old

lifeless shit like a zombified comet,

returning once every ad block.

Ad hoc hypnotisms

preventing any true activism

by ceaselessly promoting

empty, easy shams.

But there's nothing like the real thing.

Least of all, those sleazy scams.

Inordinately paid actors

fill the corners of your screen to croon

the filthy praises of their masters,

thinly veiled, on a mission to maroon

your sense of self and purpose

on that tiny, glowing island.

Its ghostly blue light has you mostly locked tight,

but that shine that you see ain't no diamond.

It's no opening, beckoning from the tunnel's end,

it's the torch of an oncoming train.

If it has its mindless way,

you'll be just a scorch mark and a stain.

I know, I know, my soap box shouting

is so self-righteous, it makes you sick.

But I'll hold this haughty air within my lungs

until I hear your 'lock screen' button click.