Chronicle

I here chronicle the events on Twitter of the 13th July 2024. I here chronicle the implosion of an industry, and the sociological deaths of at least three well know personalities. I here chronicle schadenfreude, accidental implosion, carelessness and fuck you, deserved commeuppance, and vicarious retort. I here chronicle 13,777 tweets, totalling 1,804,787 characters, being lived as 3,444 (and a quarter) human life hours. I here chronicle at least 956 subtweets, of various levels of passive aggressiveness. I here chronicle the sad tweets, alone in a desert of talk, who made comment without the full context, unisolate in history, who post to advertise their blog, the promoted tweets to satisfy curiosity, to satisfy revenge as the dragon is tempted with a sweaty maiden. I here chronicle the vastly greater lurking viewers, the aeons worth of unsent messages and multiple thousand revised drafts. I here chronicle spelling mistakes noticed and unnoticed, atoned and unatoned for. I chronicle three burned meals, a stubbed toe, the faded white and blue afterimage decaying and pushing sleep, cats and dogs and fish unfed, general malaise, unlocalizable unease, no one feels like they won except the machinelike who continue to believe they have never made a mistake even as they pile up like carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. I chronicle the year following where 13 lost their jobs in ways directly or indirectly linked to particular tweets sent in this period. I chronicle the further deterioration of the environment over the next 100 years, the anthropocene, then the anti-anthropocene, the post-anthropocene waste. I chronicle the advent of generalised affordable commercial spaceflight whilst those with easily curable diseases continue to die due to the fact that some object to the principle of charity. I here chronicle the sun, the sun, the sun, as it grows, as it grows, as it grows. I chronicle the messianic advent of immense power. I here chronicle that it came too late.

I here chronicle the field, in the sun, the grass waving in the warm breeze. There is no one here. The insects are silent, or gone, and occasionally a bird flies through heading elsewhere. The warmth of redness in your eyes, and the cold air’s caress of your back. The waft of your t-shirt, and the smell of spring. You look up and see immense superobjects of water vapour interact in the stinging blue.

V.33

If we retreat into enclaves
Well, there’s only so much conflict
we can take. And the web itself
was an example of that

then small trolls followed us here to
watch their voices overspill and
burble down the drainpipe feed-scroll.
But that’s just the way of things eh?

You can invent a beautiful
machine, and someone will want to
use it to masturbate. It’s fair.
That’s just the structure of human

subjectivity. Little did
we know. Think of monasteries
out in the cold dales. These machines
undone by fat ranting hierarchs

and murder based upon other
older mantras. I just want prayer
to fill the halls and no sex life.
But they keep broadcasting naked

creatures on the walls of my mind.
And this whole response is really
too much. Echoing an echo
of an echo of an echo

V.21

The worst are full of it, and the
best are kinda preachy, you know?
the crack of bones upon repeat
creates emotional flashpoints

and the general conflagration
begins with a cringy subtweet.
Memories like Beatrician
moments in our childhood, are weak.

the endless image stream is strong
and overwhelms us daily such that
regret is forgotten and starts
to take out essential support

groups and systematically fails.
Walks of palmers, romers, pilgrims,
pass past us and help us forget
a grief well marketed, help us

see the path to the sea is free
and paths across land boundaries
are free. While youtube does its best
to suggest videos likely

to send me literally insane.
That said, if you find a poem
does not help you live, jettison
it as soon as you can, my friend