Insects & Robot Brains

Insects & Robot Brains

There’s spiders in the galaxy. One, Two, Three. Their cobwebs catch the dreams of the uninspired earthlings. Starving their bodies while they are deep asleep, humans are conformist who just need to eat...something original, something motivational, something inspirational...something unique.

Smear makeup over the cut places. Cover up what life did to all of your faces. It’s so magnificent how the human skin will repair the tears etched far within. Well, if you’re not pretty, then you are ugly, get plastic surgery because society will judge thee. It’s all about how your face developed since you were a baby. So, come out as a movie star if you ever wanna feel complete.

Look at the prestigious checking out the prey- beneath florescent lights and authority. Delicious works of God are prone to cavities. His tools will fill their voids with silvery mercury.

The dentist will spread you open. He’ll spread you open wide. Part those curious lips and let the doctor inside. Surrender the locked mouth to the latex hand. You were born as the sex to be harnessed as a slave to man.

A journey to find yourself. Quit trying to be somebody else. Because the lower that you go, you descend into a labyrinth- that only you know. Savoring the sweet absinthe. A black sky made of crows. Your conscience is absent. The rivers of poison overflow. The earth is dead. The clock is ticking. You’re wasting your chances to be anything aspiring. Quit being silent, There’s so many things worth saying. Will the world know who you are before you start decaying?

I’ve been smothering on a planet. I’ve already picked out my casket, but something tells me that I’m worthy to be something permanent. My life is not immortal. I’m swimming out of a gravitational pull with floating, dead astronauts and their abandoned space shuttles. Swirling into a whirling, unending oblivion. The life forms on this planet are as distant as aliens.

The satellite signals are warping our embryos’ minds. The gun-vermin-t are wasps gathering dirt to secure their hives. We are six-legged insects that are programmed to consume- anything that the mindless flowers produce. Hanging from silk threads, wriggling in our cocoons. I feel the gentle crawling of the starving, brown recluse. How could the situation get worse? I finally broke loose, and fell toward the blinking lights of the technological universe. Just don’t comply with the robots’ computerized brains. We don’t need a remote control to move. We don’t need to be maintained.

-Sir ßane Ðefiance

(we do not own the rights to the image above.)