25 January 2012

Tele Heads


Infantile tolerance of the mediated zone breeds contemptuous sponsors for the anodyne combine of subtle televisual offerings and geostationary couch potatoes. Confined to filling space in the schedule of vicarious frills we orphans of reality seek answers in the most unlikely circumstances. We lived, we loved, and we died in the comfort of our arm sockets and the blindness of our dreaming. Lost to the unexplained textbook lists of vacant heads we expanded into the zero zone. Our veins drip coca cola, our hearts pump fat around our corpulent flesh mountains – we are dying without ever living, looking without seeing, listening without hearing. We are touched by nothing and nothing is our inheritance. We rest our weary foreheads on the plasma screen and swear by the cathode ray gun that we are individuals; singular and discrete while  sharing our scattered  dreams with the white noise of the void.



  1. Like a shattering mural depicting the existence of the average citizen laying comatose hooked to the feeding machine of screwed signals. My highest regards

    "The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."
    Neuromancer, William Gibson

  2. P.S. Don't you wonder sometimes whether the memories of the greater audience would not be a generated hologram of everything they never experienced. It makes one want to dive in life

  3. So right on! You have described the ordinary state of humanity, but not of you and Natasa, you two are Alive..!!