Traffic is light tonight on the information highway,
there’s a wicked breeze, and the moon is up,
tires skid on the wires, you are in control.
You don’t care where you are going,
anything you find is good enough.
You’re just there for the ride,
let the bytes tick past.
Bits of data hurl pass you,
ghosts of political debates past,
a controversy or two catches your fancy
but not enough to make you stay –
poor darlings were making eyes at you
and you just looked away.
A friend drops by for a little chat
hey, how you doing, good good
the same old tripe over and over
you shove her head first onto the road.
Ignore the salesmen with the sly grins
who want to sell you their ‘package’
and the roadside pleas to save a child,
it’s a scam, no one is that nice anyway.
You pull up to write something,
but the words don’t come right
because like any other invention of the human mind
of course language is doomed to fail.
A madman runs past,
screaming “THE END OF THE WORLD HAS COME!”
You are disgusted by his lack of citation
and floor the connection.
The bright star of promise
burns over the digital wasteland –
the confessions of a billion strangers
that ever was, is and will be –
broken syntax, broken dreams
the voyeur in you is quite pleased.
Something hits the windshield –
slam the brakes, tires scream.
Splayed before your face,
like a giant spider, limbs askew,
is the remains of a young man from Tokyo
who said he couldn’t take it any more.
He was tired of his plastic girlfriend,
tired of being ignored,
tired of running his hand over his face
to check if he was still real.
So one bright morning
he closed all his accounts,
picked up a blade and finished
what had to be done.
Now his ghost wanders the wasteland –
alone and faceless. Only his voice –
sentences, awkward and lopped
remain as a signpost to his existence.