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 acid pink lemonade / bubblegum razor blade / reflux cuts / refractals of esophagus / scattered hatching / backwards flagpole / intimate violence / apocalyptic infant born with fangs / ticker tape / manic pixel / casketgrasp the VCR / bastard act / exclusive / peruse the chickenscratch / abstraction / static laughter / failed catastrophe / try again / try again / stank like fetus / like senile deletion / readscript  / keep it / vomit needless / wordspit / worse shit / in my head

livestreaming the apocalypse 

i watch the convenience store burn 

much like a screensaver fading out of oblivion:

full technicolor, impossibly distant. numb to context. 

yesterday, another child was eulogized in 4k, a parade of pixels

on endless loop, a continuum of grief.  in this sense, 

betrayal is binary:

the selfish flame or vast wreckage 

& the memory of our brief but sacred visitation.

& the unlearning afterwards. in light of this, 

or the smoldering silhouette radiating onscreen,

we have become a stock photo: 

saturated bystander, a digital wind howling

before it disappears into the void.

my uber driver tells me that automation is the devil

we cross canal st, the gutters hiss like rattlesnakes, 

coiled rope, some kind of unholy small talk

did you know that after the apple, adam flashed a low-battery warning, 

smashed his own face with a hard fall out of pocket?

and the streets are thick with merchandise, shiny 

broken things stumbling out from neon shadow

before the apple, there were only windows. 

tiny hands in sooty factories an ocean away from home.

and the garden wasn’t so much garden as it was sprawling jungle, orchard 

blooming concrete, a thousand bodies falling like fruit to the pavement below.

i have seen his face, my driver says,

megapixels smiling back from the screen in front of me.

Lucas Peel likes the idea of strangers, vegetables, and defacing things in the name of art. He does not like vinegar, rules, or high places, though he is willing himself to at least understand the purpose of all three. One time Neil Hilborn told him that his poems were pretty. He currently lives in Aiea, Hawaii.

EN // FR