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A brief visit to a slightly differing reality. OR IS IT? Kind of like when you watch Black Mirror and at the end the twist is YOU'RE the character in the episode and anyone with a Netflix account is inhabiting a near-future dystopia. Happens every time.


Before you look at me like I’m a neo-Luddite,
all screens point at me at once in a real floodlight.
Ideally sunlight would bathe me more often
between now and a million internets and a coffin.
Can’t soften up my viewpoint:
modern love is the realm and computron is the true coin.
And that’s it for you, boy. You’re forty-two and the coif fled.
Better find true love immediately, as you’ve oft said.
So you figure the thing out, pick out a password,
look in your digital photographs folder over the last third
of your life. Is anything plausibly still hot?
What kind of hope about love have you impossibly still got
lodged in your nerd mind?
Don’t you remember biology, all of the sad ones that the herd find
difficult to cope with
left the group and weren’t eloped with.

Before you look at me
I could tell, you could be
All that I have ever wanted

Cant trick you perfect. Nevertheless!
Ever since Guttenberg and Rosanna Arquette’s
mise-en-scène, brandishing the sheaf of dot-matrix,
your belief in top basics got stasis.
You take ways that you might not be forgivable, reveal them.
List your investment in every real un-
shakable truth that you’ve ever pondered.
That profile text seems far off. You never wander.
You write what you’ve seen people write, like:
you feel extreme nostalgia for Excitebike;
you read this book once and you quite liked it;
screens keep you company bright nights like these.
There’s a reply! This thing is pinging at you.
Look at his eyes: both of them singing at you.
He’s in disguise as you, except beautiful.
Offers his services. Whispers he’s dutiful.

Wait, it’s the dating app. It made a map of your whole identity,
but with all of the things that your soul intends to be
punched up and expressed now unequivocally.
Plus, it fixed your chin, and the whole thing’s riveting.
It’s leveraging a neural network on your behalf.
Check the projected effectiveness there on the graph.
If you let go, it’ll send notes to other romance-seeking persons,
or rather to the prettier, funnier, geekier versions
of those humans that the system surely improved.
Your algorithm is better at flirting than you.
Their algorithms are better at flirting back.
Your virtual face, already out on a date with your top match.
Each of your virtual fleshes intertwine,
and even though you’re not participating, this is fine.
It’s kind of ideal as your dating endgame:
bot’s got your heart simulating on the mainframe,
keeps it beating in your name.


from Net Split or, the Fathomless Heartbreak of Online Itself, released March 8, 2019
Vocals: MCF
Drum and synth programming: Baddd Spellah
Guitar: Brendan B. Brown

Lyric by Damian Hess
Music by Damian Hess and David T. Cheong


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MC Frontalot New York

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