Fellow Feeling

Taste, but don't touch

touch but don't eat

eat but don't digest

digest but don't quit

quit without judgement.

The gaze is so odd, something has been splattering out the screen for decades 

and so the flesh becomes avatar for onlineness, a dead middle censure-proof anonymity

that some unfunny piece of shit will label dashcam core, I've returned to being

ironic about this kind of humour, seeming genuine is not what I'm selling,

harvest me, part me out, but what you don't get is how long I lingered

on one image over another, if you overlay each and every one I looked at 

believe it or not it's something that looks purple and brown which is how people 

entertained themselves in the olden days, thumbs pressed down on closed eyelids and all that.

Doorbell cam core is just a score of beleaguered Amazon delivery workers

glumly dragging that weird reinforced impromptu child playhouse

package container along the ground towards its inevitable demise two

shifts later. Nothing contains this time more than Amazon, wheel-less

on the streets beneath the palatial scaffolding, angel white Dubai walkways,

as the Louis Vutton flagship renders into trunk overnight, the building 

next to it could be shielding pedestrians from gargoyles and cherubs 

for decades now or longer until the day the package container, 

finally expended of things to put in it, expands over 200 times its size, 

swallowing whole all in the vicinity before shrinking down to a matchbox so dense, 

no drone with a hook could ever dropship it.