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Agents of Entropy.

Another one picks
up the gun, itchy finger
flirting with the trigger,
eager to feed our insatiable
hunger for gore,

drama, sensational
drawn by the promise of a tan,
a crispy, third-degree burn
to be delivered
by the media spotlight
at the end
of this tunnel
carved in petrified bullshit.

Burned at the stake,
a barbecue the eyes
of a broken mind
views through a perceptual
window tinted with envy.

Aching to be a martyr
for the rising hate.
To be somebody, make a difference,
be another push
in this vermilion wave.

Cannot just tap
nodes in the web
of human life on the shoulder
anymore (in the movie, Seven,
Kevin Spacey was right:
one must ready the sledgehammer).
Hence this display
of spree killing,
of mass murder.

In the wake
of a predictably exploited tragedy,
here stands, here lies
just another guaranteed celebrity.

Body count piles up, still it pales
in comparison to the ratings.

Drama draws the crowd.

Vicariously, troops of sadomasochistic primates
lap at the trickling adrenaline
offered by the spectacle
like a wild pack of thirsty dogs,
hypnotized into defending
their owner’s cause,

as they channel
the fury of the herd,
blind madness securing
their slavery,
fueling the absurd.

Inspired by the eyes fixed
on the so-called news,
others hear the message,
do what they can to earn the megaphone,
the eyes of Argus, to hijack
fifteen minutes of fame, meet the demands
of the viewing audience, immortalized
in bloodshed, infectious
among the abused.

They are just
agents of our entropy.
It’s all falling down,
fucking crumbling.


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