Jerome Jack Krupert Nov 2017 intro

(manufacturing drama manufacturing busy manufacturing falseness)

the muse was once a sensuous siren serenading me away from daily doldrums

out to see of nonsense gibberish

endless expanse of words words words words images nonsense

I couldn't navigate it all, ever (still can't)

but it was always there

now the muse feels choked, silenced by microscopic digital nanoparticles

branded as progress, clogging my every thought with unnecessary distractions

hijacked consciousness contemplating commercial tangents

personal trajectory depressed

heartbeat of anxiety, wondering for what the blood pumps

hyper-pulse towards holographic horizon never more than one right swipe away

digital nanoparticles manufacture data

which devils mine for details (keys) to gain access to our psychology (neurology)

and implant their fear-based metaphysical fetal position syndrome technologies

into our minds

the gut is a chorus (kin to the muses) saying "NOOOOOOOO!"

in that indiscernible tingle linguistics way science has yet to decipher fully (foolishly)

the heart is the frontline, where gut's resistance to brain's ignorance is held at bay

hopefully (hope foolishly)

but how to trigger the muse? can brain force the gut to talk more often (or at all)?

I have disappeared into music since the beginning

Sunday mornings with albums playing loud as parents navigated hangovers (or dad was still drunk?)

were the most peaceful memories of back in the day

eggs & sausage cooking, stability in the moment

soundtrack loud enough plenty of room to run wild with play

music always been the muse caller

thus hoping to pierce the fucking nanoparticle veil again

all of this of course means nothing too. digital publication of words is no longer exercises in true nonsense gibberish because the nanoparticles have polluted us all to believe everything is important, all must be curated, share every piece of info openly. we have been trained to self-snitch and aid freely (without pay) in the manufacturing of data, to be mined by the devils, to access our metaphysical spaces. still though, fuck it. I’ll share these shards of fogged out hope stabbing through the invisible net that has entrapped me, stifled me, slowed me down to where false concerns occupy more of my grey matter than ever before. the bots have gotten to me, and sometimes they even seem sexier than the real thing. that’s why the sensuous siren song of the muse is gone – I am digitally domesticated, trapped inside an electromagnetized fence, afraid to escape because of all the predators they have told me await just on the other side of lolololol meme.

this is november 2017 jerome jack krupert