SSS: MELTED QUEEN

*CLICKY CLICKY*

fronty 3 of 4: scan with printer paper taped up 4 ways on a black canvas, then crop

clicky 3 of 4: click to reveal...my chest cliffhanger to next week

i got this post's title's reference, but not after another childhood bullet. see, when i first encountered Mr. Van Winkle's seminal hit on the radio (yes radio was the prime source of teenage community back then), i honestly thought i was listening to an original beat. only years later when i entered my music-snob intellectual phase did i learn it was Queen and Bowie all along, and the dirty word "sampling" entered my fevered brain, never to get out. the last part of the song, "too cold," for the longest, my friends and i couldn't decipher that lyric, one thought it was "to go", another, "jamon," which presented a fresh set of problems.


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she didn't respond to my youtube comment,
what the fuck is the point of blogs and youtube channels
if you don't talk with the uploader?
no interconnectivity is a big waste of the energy panel.

what am i, a mindreader?
how am i to discern what my comment did to you?
i promise i worked hard on it to make it just right,
just the right amount of humor, seriousness, and good ol'
internet moral relativism for you to skew.

these are the problems i have these days,
it's as pathetic as a sack of potatoes.
long gone are true causes like freedom and hunger,
they don't make pizza in this world anymore with real tomatoes.

i mean, shit, a little mark here or there, the kiss or the o hug
would go a long way in determining intent,
although i confess that fucking ;) sign is irritating,
i use it too much, and i agree to relent.

i think i'm done, folks,
i know i've said it before,
but this computer living
has rightly sucked my soul.
i deserve all that's been done to me
for thinking a keyboard can replace flesh,
no amount of precious words typed
can replace a real live cum-and-clit-juice sesh.

as sandwiches go, though panini and bacon rules,
it's not as much fun as a skin sandwich
when you and your lover are intertwined, mashed together, combined,
and the dreams are real, and you two drool

into each others' mouths, it's a sex thing.

facebook, twitter, foursquare, and the rest
are technological marvels, and garbage.
meeting furries has lost its initial joke,
everything you type will become a tired meme,
words have been completely vacated of their power
when you put a little knocked-out Pacquiao pic beside them.
all there is now is irony, there are no real feelings,
love has been banished to the Heaven Universe,
easy hate to the Hell of our Hearts.
online communication is a band-aid,
rip it off and address the actual bleeding gaping wound,
talk to your flesh friends, make flesh love.

18, legal, and the four of our eyes lock,
before long, we had forgotten what we typed,
that was all a blur, deleted or restored, didn't matter,
we were born again anew
in a bed of birth,
we were ripe
and ate one another,
as if computers died but rivers and streams remained,
no need for green technology, only green,
primeval mountains and trees and dinos roaming
awoke our fucking, later on the rooster's cry did that, millions of evolution years later,
a million years wrapped up into my cock entering her ass,
all nice and...legal...and wonderful

we were keen and supreme and believed and were free,
no status updates, no CNN scrolls, no plug (except the butt plug), no tweets



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