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Erratic Oculus
Those pixels
Are still screaming at me.
Screaming
No, no they’re not, they’re gone
It was never
Screaming
Stop! What are you doi
Screaming
I can control myself. I can control myself. I. Have.
Control.
Control.
That soft unpixilation is not mine, it never was,
Not mine to chose
to control
to have
and to hold
Enough. My RAM is mine to spend,
And ramming it against my chest
Until the text
Breaks
Spills out
in gouts
and rills
Down to the
virgin
Earth
Where it can build a lexicon of false warmth
And slanted niceties
Will write the novel around my shoulders
Without a trace of winding red or green.
But it will leave a palimpsestal parchment
One of little warmth when worn in pageantry
Against my fellows.
Would that I could rip that
pixilated
ink-stained
bloody
flimsy
ugly parchment
into
SM
I
t
Her
ee
n
S
And weave it back into a cloak of lesser worth.
A garment in whose fabric those pixels
Those perfect pixels
are next to mine,
and they are mine
and they are ours
by virtue of the shared perfection I can only meet
in facebook news feeds
and jostled shoulders.
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The formatting of this poem is rather important to me, and it seems that the website messes it up a bit, so you're getting a slightly different version.