Strobe

in bowlcuts in mohawks
penguin JPEGs pumped and dumped to the top of the columns the times

strangers in chatrooms whales
I’m cool with them you’ll see

when the jpeg mafia
headaches itself hot with lo-fi

there’s no future to trust
don’t you see that’s the scheme

to start another
breezing through the metaverse fuck we’re fucked

so I buy .69% of a penguin
some fraction of

eight thousand eight hundred and eighty eight
I got the armpit part I joke to my new clique

my new real boys on the meme scene
my breath fractionalizes

crawls into pain splinters knots in the upper back
some other soul lurks in my stream of the stream

a nightmare dangles its legs over the creek like a sick image of the frog
with a sick grin it listens to drill

webbed it admits it usually hates music
I’m just lurking it seems to whisper from its blinking icon

in the link halls it wants to draw and game
what can’t be known

which is why I’m street huffing cycling traffic
away from all thoughts and the thing and it

cutting people off high
wrathful on their fumes

Greta on the billboards
blue boy BJ on the billboards

Billy Purdy from my football dreams on the billboards
grinning down at me

turn-n-burn birds in windless sleep
we skate the uncrackable black ice

server farms
visions of spice a worm cannot un-know

I’m flowing their arguments
they’re blissed out on chains of terminal logic

gunning for mass death
it’s a wash it’s funny they insist people are net evil

the lo-fi fills all my gun holes
politics put me here

by which I mean the city is finally slick with rain
so I fall and smash my shoulder

as an ode to pain written for no one
it’s all funny and fucked I guess

I agree
me and the PhD dropouts are clicking cookies

storming useless systems
theory crafting for 5

we circumvent and be complained about
my reality host is telling me to turn the hourglass sideways

bring the hammer down
to undo what happened

it’s relaxing this scroll
though my back don’t like it somehow nor my body do

addiction get you close to God they say
ain’t we flushed with status

ain’t we spamming bliss
rolling deep with my skinny head Roblox souls

my procedural prophet margin errors
I hunt in the doom sphere with a shattered beer bottle

to find something weak that looks at least edible if not unpoisoned
the music rattles the corrugated tin of the club

it’s a rave for the rave-born
grinding hips on the 1s and 2s

the oh and zero
four horsemen on the floor

been reading ghost brained for 50 pages
no password to contain this clicking sprint

Macauley is in me screaming
static fills out the song

they got a needle in this one
they’re recording the college board information session

the day darkens with fog outside the cube
these fucks are on Twitter ride or die for e-girls

only enough courage to tattoo their avatars
I want out

they’re selling gucci handbags in the mini-game proto life
I want out

I’m emailing mom
can you smell me

I’m gonna sell

Will Vincent’s chapbook, Wildfires: I-XVI was recently published with speCt!. His poems and articles have appeared in The Elephants, Scout, PANK Magazine, Entropy, HTML Giant, and The Iowa Review. He co-wrote a short film with Adam Shecter and edited a chapbook of the same title for the video installation New Year, displayed at the Eleven Rivington gallery in New York. He lives in Culver City, California.

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