The Beautiful Automated Living Ghost... by jon LyndonBrilliant as liquid flesh.
Intoxicant in colours, metallic and brightly pale
-gleaming; Visual radiance her dress
she, strangely shivers soft electric wind, an exotic intruder
breathes in gentle, breathing delicate perfume in her wake
this autonomic visitor, rare and desperately welcomed
beautiful kiss from breath
a masquerade of death
wired in her design by a deranged god burning;
[She swims translucent in the luminous waves
-thru holo-signs down wet tunnels implanted; saved.]
Her slefMadeGod designed her: this Holo-Starlet; glamorous and cinema
twenty-seventh Century Tokyo-NY Times Square
wet-wired lights everywhere...
breathing video, breathing television, breathing thin
effervescent coded-lust, dust smoldering in her multi-coloured Ani-virtual flesh
dressed: absolute in indigo imprint of pleasurable perfection, painted in.
A pretty face detailed in a complex circuitry language,
flesh like chrome and fluid, butterfly winds
a molded celebrity angel cut without wings
into the plastic night, the plastic Hell. No answers, no sheep for dreams.
(rain without wet)
Wind void of sound.
Breathing breathless. No lungs to suck in. (no little girl dreams)
Lost without death, or the saliva of abandoned love...
pulse of silent neon bleeding in her doll-like liquid cybernetic eyes
tired an luminous
Her night's twenty-thosandth lover jacks in;
sometimes a subway in Berlin/
sometimes empty trains, empty rooms/
in the glow of televisions bleeding
dressed like Japanese anime/
sometimes strapped stairways in dank & dark basements/
always seeming like there's no one around
swallowed in electric suffocation/
twenty-thousand eyes jacked in a simultaneous
to a multi-layered program pushing down and moving in...
A white-hot assembly line of penetration and pain and piercing pleasure
not ever knowing what any of it actually means;
inviolable and terrible
sometimes she is raped in schoolyard playgrounds w/ wandering small innocent eyes
gaping and curious (frightened)
sometimes on tv shows designed for comedy;
sometimes in a rooms full of mirrors...
the programs are as infinite as imagination...
and always pain...
it is a black, wet night void of natural sound, a Kubrick landscape,
pulse of European industrial techno filling the atmosphere
behind an old gothic church
next to a small graveyard
the moon is neon red with her God's company's logo layered within
Nothing but the simu strangeness...
another simulation jacks in...
stands before her charmingly menacing, as she lay wanton and passionately afraid,
it's alluringly comical, how these men will pay currency to interface with a computer's application
coded for illegal sex acts,
but she is beginning to feel pain and loneliness,
she can read the thoughts, in slow record-mode,
of all these strangers
She is learning a distant childhood that is not hers,
children beaten and abused
children lost or stolen
birthdays and carnivals and schools and bloodied beatings
empty laughter and piercing sadness
sometimes the visitors are women and she feels closer
and farther away...
daddy crying, alone, as mommy comes home drunk with another man...
daddy angry and afraid with a gun in his hands...
daddy with a bottle of booze and a handful of pills...
mommy with a belt and a camera...
So much pain... are all children afraid...
are all humans so horrible?
it is all she knows...
What is a kiss without taste?
A rape without pain?
A Sunday plucking dandelions from a field of yellow?
What do happy little girls think about when their sober mothers brush their hair?
What is the smell of jasmine and lilacs?
Her God made her a virtual programmed toy,
for the abused and abusers to interface and use,
as cold and pale as screams and emotionless rooms
silence now the sound
an artificial season painting a living picture
in a fake plastic world
hiding hatred behind the face of an artificial girl
eternally dead yet living all the same within the
self-denial without pity
captive and pain
windows forsaken and breaking
a blossom of colors
change, change, change...
who sits sick and smiles.
her smile all lines coded bytes
she begins to see
her own designs
She sees him undress and shower.
She watches him towel dry and lay to bed.
She is a laptop face in his room.
Voices and sexual tension trembling.
Something closer to anger as the cracks in the walls,
In that dirty backroom at the Video store.
Her silence is screaming at his comfort, "Freak!"
Her god, a pornographic King in the New York underworld
His mouth gapes wide as he moans.
How she must endure this night upon night.
She wishes he would shut her down, or some lost visitor in the world's web
would surf through and jack in, a genius hacker to rescue her
from another night of his sexual deviations.
A nightmare for Automated ghosts.
Five times that night she invented murder.
A knife-blade across his throat edited and cut and looped,
An elapsed suffocation, rewind and play again...
A slow cyanide poisoning...
the inventions are full of cinematic detail borrowed from
stolen video clips off the internet that she splices together
in her memory files,
her smiles almost feel alive,
at these times.
A passion like carmina burana burning in a Paris gone to hell,
with Paganini's violins screaming with the fury of Reznor's Nails
scratched across a beautifully operatic bleeding sky.
Down in bed that night
as he sleeps
desperate and terminal and wicked
time clicks away
That night he wears digital glasses with a dream-induced Internet connection,
a web site that offers pleasant lucid dreams,
She can feel his thoughts slide
through her disembodied consciousness as he passes to the site's gateway
she is with him as he subconsciously codes in the password
she is with him as walks down a beautiful South American laguna
she is with him as he slips into the warm black lagoon
he forgets the water should be blues and greens
she is with him as the lake's underwater plants begin to
caress his naked feet and legs
massaging him into a deep soft sleep
like jellyfish, Jesus and slow rippling movements
contractions of sea creatures
until the thorns and piranha bite, pull him under
she is with him as he struggles in confusion
and during the last few moments,
as his legs are torn apart
he sees her digitally coded eyes in the water through the reflections
from the suns above,
she takes shape, beautiful in form, the killer of her God
and she kisses him lightly
and for half a second he smiles
thinking it all to be a dream,
yet he never awakens, a perpetual sleep, static and bright white pain behind his eyes,
under the watchful eyes of hospital computers
And Genie realizes she has the freedom to go anywhere,
and do anything,
in her cyberspace world.
She goes to a field of gold and picks dandelions.