Rouse Drowsy From Night's Lie featuring「TRAIN ME」
A music video, a narrative piece, and fifteen arcana.
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𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗
⎳𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙀𝙍𝙊𝙎, 𝘾𝘼
💙
𝘑𝘘𝘋
ᴍᴜɴᴅᴜs ᴠᴜʟᴛ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴘɪ
◤
MMXXV ◢
𝕀.
“TRAIN ME” [DEMO] via ‘THE STRANGE CASE OF THE ELECTRONIC LOVER’
𝕀𝕀.
TURN OFF
█ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴏꜰꜰ.
→
8:08 A.M.
Screen flicker.
A stubbled face awash in harsh blue light.
Eyes dart, fingers click keys.
Notifications pile-up in crashes.
Heaping endless avalanche.
He has a name but it doesn’t matter.
He has some numbers and they do.
Enumerated accumulation.
Illuminated eyestrain.
Quantity and all its wants.
Earthspun upon a crooked gyre.
The world a maze of screens and wires.
Ping.
Email from the boss.
Ping.
Text from a friend.
Ping.
Meeting reminder.
The cacophony never ceases.
The shit-sound’s without end.
Jaw-clench.
Muscles tense.
A vein throbs at the temple.
Numb-assed.
It’s gotta be sciatica.
4:22 P.M.
Conference room.
Video call.
Overseas clients.
Big time.
Pan-Pacific.
Heavy hitters.
Can’t miss it.
Faces on screens, voices distorted.
Time lags, lapses.
The call’s aborted.
Device freezes.
Static consuming.
Breakdown, broken.
Boss is fuming.
Chaos inevitable.
"Y O U ’ R E F I R E D."
Cuts the noise of headhum and disarray.
Ordered air.
Cut-down.
Clear as day.
Done.
6:02 P.M.
Home.
Empty apartment.
More screens.
Gnat beacons.
Flits and flickers.
Blots that bleaken.
I guess this is dinner.
6:44 P.M.
Her face appears, pixelated and cold.
A tail is tucked.
And a tale is told.
"I just—it’s like you’re not even there . . .
Not ever there.
It's over.
Face it—
You're never present.
You never have been."
A deal is struck.
He’ll still watch the dog.
While she vacations.
After that it’s over.
She’s out.
The call ends.
Silence engulfs him.
Murmur rises to a roar.
“Off.”
“Off!”
"Turn it OFF.”
“Turn it ALL off."
7:21 P.M.
Night falls.
The cell tower stands.
Wirecutters in hand, he approaches.
Sparks fly as he works.
A small victory’s won.
5:15 A.M.
Dawn breaks.
ISP building looms institutional.
Keycard cloned, he’s inside.
Alone.
Machine under press of flesh-and-bone.
Servers crash beneath him.
Signals hiccup, burp, sputter, stall.
A figure emerges from the shadowed wall.
“Who the fuck are you?”
He’d thought himself solo.
Be on the lookout.
“My name is Yoyo.”
No fucking way.
Whatever.
He’ll take it.
Wild-eyed hacker.
Saboteuse make-up.
"Need help?"
She offered.
“I could use it.”
Taken.
It’s on.
To the road.
For a final vacation.
7:18 P.M.
Silicon Valley.
Just up the Grapevine.
Steady shot straight.
Leadfoot deathdrive.
Long time coming.
“Long time,” he thought.
As the smoke rose tech campus soot.
Data centers burning near-distant.
Informational ash.
“What more could you ask?”
And who would you, anyway?
11:57 P.M.
The rental truck hums.
An EMP device rests on the bench seat between them.
“Yoyo, this is military shit — where’d you get this?”
Grins the green glow of dashlights.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answered."
And it’s countdown, mouthed silent.
3,
2,
1 —
Boom.
Darkness spreads like spilled ink.
City by city, lights snuff.
Galaxies burst into sharp relief.
Stark in new religious sky.
2:12 A.M.
Undersea cables snake ocean floors.
In diving gear, improbable, they plant explosives.
A global network, soon to be severed.
Tick, tick, tick.
4:33 A.M.
They surface.
Detonator in hand.
A hesitation.
The weight of the world’s unweaving in his palm.
She nods.
"Do it. Free us all."
Click.
Depressed.
A world unmade.
Continents ripple.
Disrupted.
Thrown shade.
In total blackout.
Guideless satellites fall from orbit.
Fiery trails streak night sky, biblical.
Ezekiel.
4:33.
Cagey.
In the streets, panic spreads.
Screens dim dark.
Phones brick.
People emerge, blinking bleary, into New World Analog.
They stand hilltop watching the world burn and reform.
"What now?"
Turns off his last device.
The screen goes.
Smiles unseen.
"Now we listen."
Circuits decay.
Wires rust.
Slow motion.
Nature’s reclamation apace.
Birdsong.
Windrustled cypress.
Insect buzz.
The symphony of life plays on.
A deep breath of a different air.
The candles of the prepared appear.
Voices carry cross the stillness.
Laughter and cries and music and arguments and confusion.
She nears, sits.
"Was it worth it?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
“Just to see.”
Finally.
In the growing darkness, forgotten stars emerge.
Avatars of ancient gods with atavistic urges.
And him at last he’s long leaned back.
In cool grass in full relax.
Eyeshut listening to the world spirit.
He’s been long dead and she never existed.
💙
JQD
𝕀𝕀𝕀.
IT MUST BE HELL
WELL
IT MUST BE HELL LIVING WITH ME.
NOTHING STABLE.
NOTHING TO SEE.
AS FOR MYSELF?
I’VE TRIED TO LEAVE.
IT HASN’T WORKED OUT.
BUT LOOKS DECEIVE.
𝕀𝕍.
TUNING
The voice of god’d like a word with you.
How opportune.
Your misfortune.
Suicided authors.
Smothered.
Uncultured.
Unnumbered.
Unrated.
X’ed out.
Exit left.
Right?
Littered letters, left-to-right.
Left to rot.
Heavy breath and light heads.
Pisstrained.
Bladderbusted.
A piston-pumper’s chuckle.
A bigboobed titter.
When a beast of the field gives splat to birth they pronounce the mess a litter.
As trash it’s worth.
And I as well.
Littered here.
Overdue tell.
Shade on you.
Umbral under.
Crack of a snare.
Beat conundrum.
Ended ear.
Another errant night.
Sidewalk slight.
Rooftop alight.
They all wanted you there.
But you weren’t quite.
𝕍.
TESSERACT DANCE (ALL THE WORLD IS BLACKMAIL)
[fat ass, bouncing]
Look at you.
How ‘bout that?
[fat ass, bouncing]
Samizdat.
Kompromat.
[fat ass, bouncing]
𝕍𝕀.
THE DEMON, THE WOODCHIPPER, THE MEATGRINDER
I notice this appears to be a poem or song lyrics that touches on some very dark and difficult themes around mental health, self-worth, and suicidal thoughts. The mix of intense emotional content and experimental style suggests this may be expressing some deep personal pain.I want to check in - are you looking to discuss these themes or are you sharing this as a creative work? I'm here to listen and talk if you'd like. If you're experiencing thoughts of suicide or severe distress, I'd strongly encourage you to reach out for professional support - there are caring people available 24/7 to help:National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US): 988 Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741Would you like to tell me more about what's on your mind? I'm here to listen without judgment.𝕍𝕀𝕀.
PLAYER
Join me lowslung in the discard pile.
‘52 pick-up with a millionhalf miles.
Sire and siren.
Call and wail.
A deck of joker jacks.
A joke of jackoff rope.
A sun choked.
And coffee spat.
Spit splattered.
Monitor mist.
Greymattered.
Blackloud lad.
Sod a sylvan path southwound.
𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀.
REALLY
What if I was at gunpoint?
Hell — what if I had any point at all?
𝕀𝕏.
NUMBER MUNCHER
Napkin math.
Backhand.
Rotfall.
Diminishment.
Prayers told.
Pratfall.
Pose-off.
Pitiable shit.
Portal plunge in a port-a-pit.
Novel-length strength sketch of a skit.
𝕏.
ELDORADO
For all the info sought and sold,
the working’s working,
THE PRODUCT’S GOLD —
Malvoyager.
Souls to barter.
Fistsfucked.
Fights to charter.
Darling.
Charming.
“Take me harder.”
Snarled.
Leave me cold.
And underwater.
𝕏𝕀.
YOGA NIDRA
Rouse drowsy.
From night’s lie.
You’ve got a little speck of sleep in your eye.
A yawning maw yields a dreamy sigh.
𝕏𝕀𝕀.
舆论引导
The plot thickens as the audience thins.
Gut-sick from the eating of sins.
The action rises in a note flattened sour.
𝕏𝕀𝕀𝕀.
HERE WE COME
If you write enough songs about California,
Eventually someone’s gotta care.
It’s a big market.
You’ll get your share.
Shopping malls and hockey games.
County fairs call your name.
Casinos crapshoots counterclaims.
You inhale and I exclaim:
Peach, beseech —
Take the pain.
Last man left on a leaving train.
Equip the gas can and the scheming brain.
I’ll say it again.
I’ll refrain.
For the dumb motherfuckers and the dizzy dames.
Sell your soul for some flimsy fame.
Find the foot’s on the other shoe again.
𝕏𝕀𝕍.
LIGHTRAIN/HARDRAIL
Just might sell your ass for a guest pass.
“Shit he’s home.”
Get dressed fast.
You were gifted the future but the presence past.
Otherworldly aura.
Cannonball splash.
𝕏𝕍.
THE FINAL FORMAL
Out of the flames and into my element.
Bum dandy.
Brokennail elegant.
A bomb gone off at the Met Gala.
Unmaintained system failure.
Obstacles, blockages.
The end of centuries.
It wasn’t meant to be.
You didn’t need to be mean to me.
Mean to me.
What does it mean to me?
What’s it to you?
𝕏𝕍𝕀.
SEEPEETEEESSDEE
Don’t try me.
I startle easily.
Little shaky little jumpy.
Lotta uneasy.
𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀.
EMIT IT
All that’s read’s regurgitated.
Bounceback rubberoom head.
All that’s printed to fit’s not worth a hill of shit.
Return your lines and be done with it.