-D.H. Lawrence, The Escaped Cock
The theme returns again and again.
This hand hits the chess clock, click-clack, no longer wondering why some don't sleep.
Will it ever change, dear narcissists? Did you know you could fall in love with more than your own reflection? If the question is intellectual property, isn't that picture of you you name Perfect Everyman as equally enticing as your own portrait? These faces you see become kissing reflections, those faces in the water gives without resistance; the worst lovers because they disturb and disperse so easily at a touch. Do you like to seek a fight against opposing lips, the same way noble savages want to creep behind the witch doctor's mask? Are you the same souls now, who would, in the midst of Aisle Number Three, in front of the Wonder Bread, ask what was meant when someone said forever, or true, or they wish to die?
Please, be real, you demand. Hell of a desire.
The economies of twenty-seven Third World countries are spent daily on lies. The inhabitants, of course, starve, or run for their ever-freakish lives. Conspiracy theorists and folks with a general need to push something around cheer; but I'm talking about Fiction. Meet your loves back in the Bread Aisle, and ask them why they can't be real? What is with these hundred facades? You might think technology revolutionized lying. No, dear hearts, it's just that you could now do it sitting down and eating bon bons, as easily as you could order collector's plates with a credit card and a touch tone telephone. Said plates were luckier, no one ever demanded integrity out of them. At best they were put on display, and if you ate off them, the lead paint damaged your internal organs.
Consider that a potent warning against consumption of plates or men, for that matter.
The question chafes me: what right, what demand, what dare drives one to ask this much of another: Be more Real. And yet, everywhere, underneath dollar criticism and complaint, I hear that question scraping. You may tie it up, you may regulate the flow of information with so many formal and informal rules, bizarre traditions, and the thinnest of lines drawn between give me more and stop, measured only by the length and intensity of an itch and still: The real you demand, a dynamite word, a tetrachloride word , no coincidence for four letters. Do you want a picture of your bread aisle lover, weeping, drooling, furtively masturbating in the dark corner adjacent from your own? Confessing a taste for everything wrong, ugly, loud, and visceral?
There's no painting those real portraits, no souveniering (n/a word). It is just another Author and their Fiction; eat them and move on. Until you get the taste for a clean canvas out of your mouth.
Clack-click. Time is up, time to move. The sound of history, passed, in a rifle bolt, a steam arm, a door latch. Your jaw clicking in cynicism at the crash of another paper-thin expectation. Has a Digital Marketable God inspired faster downloadable hypocrisy? Is such an evil (or let me be scientific: Deviance) made worse because it can be articulated, packaged, and delivered with the throwload and precision of laser guided small-yield atomic weaponry right into your eyes?
Now, maybe God can be properly dead, a permanent deconstruction the equivalent of having lost all faith in this inescapable self-obsession of the new electronic man.