The Troll

by JA Laflin about a year ago in surreal poetry

Stream of Consciousness for the Present Age

The Troll

Night, broken cars and frozen stars

Dank memes stashed in deeper means with meaningless seams and seemingly meaningless reams of digital paper

Trapped in capers meant to be solved, evolved and revolving around fiber optic wires sending datum faster than eyes can consider blinking

Or winking for that matter

—Back, forth, back, forth, distance in an instant, messages sent from one mind to the next, text in multiple contexts, misunderstood wrecks of vital human transliteration

Iterations of coding equations, operations of ones and zeros, transmitted over frequencies, wirelessly, leaping from screens into the disease

'Increase the peace!' Shout the interruptions of mental quiet, emotionally net, via intra and inter-nets, wide webs, cast across imaginations where minds expand into unreached lands

Realms unseen, unclean—we push back the boundary, storm the foundry, bring the noise and fury of our radical dreams

Ideals held for generations, nothing new just unseen by the spoiled masses

—Stuffed in classes to differentiate, satiate, our basic needs, higher streams, best left for those of brighter sheen, 'let the other struggle'

–Wayside, dark side, far side, of the “right” side and the white side, lies reside, food-encrusted lips, slicked hair, nice chairs and jewel-encrusted hips with vault-entrusted sips of champagne, caviar, fast cars and rising stars drunk with lust and power, dark towers when night falls

The world stalls when it calls, crawls from ruins, “sure-things” and shoe-ins, in the rubble, struggle, lost without their bubble—orange-faced and boisterous

Cloistered in an oyster of human remains, innards, and thick with other sinners who worship at the altar of self and call it God

—Beyond snobs, at odds, all the knobs have come loose and so have shoes, and lost are all clues—how could this happen?

And where's the planet? Eyes above watch below with judgment throes and prepare rows, columns, solemn warnings supposedly given, for those caught livid, memories vivid, PTSD-triggered, barrels at temples, fingers on triggers, bigots sharpen their knives and dull their intellect, call collect on logic

Reason has vanished, fervently slept, until monsters wake in the absence, chugging absinthe just to keep alert

—Populist politics create comas with aromas wafting from shit-stained lips, ham-fisted, comb-over green-backed beast, chained up princesses from Europe's east, steak feasts with dollar-sign-eyed prophets of doom and war, rocks off when they think of looming rapturous lore, their white-washed Lord, led by a glorious orange

—Sold souls for bold trolls, met with old lulls and new lols, tolls taxing while old white men are climaxing, feasting, anti-vaxxing, feeding rage-infested privileged depressives with suggestions of armed directives

Automatic weapons to protect white man's sentiment, while POCs intern in tenements, less tenants, more caged, built by the enraged, by the decayed, minds of oppressors, systems built to keep them lesser...

But words don't mean anything, according to those who are affording to continue courting the industries, those who kill the trees, shoot the breeze with million dollar teeth while the toothless lay down in the ghettos, being eaten alive by methamphetamine, looking for brighter greens, lost the means, to spare any fucks for the living

Starving, lost, hopeless, blood-shot eyes and distant infant cries, the streets are despair...

'Wtf?', digits burst across screens, packets race across networks, through firewalls, servers, intranets and beyond, a thought is born, birthed painlessly over wireless access points

Broadcast to millions, instantly, very little responsibility, criticizing a pointless talking point, while poverty exists, your tweets complain about dark skinned strangers among us?

Progress, regress, you digress, we stress in distress at your every misdirect

—You utilize the very thing you hate, distrust the means you use to bait, self-medicate, masturbate to the reading of your own tweets, unaware, you excrete...

Each word your own defeat.

Night, broken cars and frozen stars.

Day, the world is ours. Voices you can't drown, can't stop us now.

The world is ours.

surreal poetry
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JA Laflin

Born in the US Pacific NorthWest, JA Laflin loves the metro areas as well as the beautiful Oregon scenery. They run a small publishing company and have authored fiction, poetry, graphic novels, and dabbled extensively in music and the arts.

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