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sits in front of the television screen,
in diapers -- watching wires speak to him, voices serena.
stretching out, the wires go, dancing sparks from the channel dial,
sex violence and chaos upon the screen -- Little Timmy sees nothing vile.
these fuses lick across his tender sin, smelling a naive uninformed mind.
no mother or father there at the time - their thoughts - the baby is fine,
watching the television screen, cords tirckling towards his eyes to corrupt his vision,
images of the cartoons replaced by the bloody news finally connecting the brain and fuse.
his eyes no longer see black and white but color bits and pigments,
the people and objects pulsing letters suddenly flashing: BE A MACHINE, the words and cords changing his mind and body.
the wires dissapear, slithering further into his psyche, Little timmy, another infant victim to,
the world -- the television screen eating at the cortex -- shedding tears of oil, contracting the symptons to,
a disease that spreads to all from ages one to five now mechanical fabricated lives.
pure human beings with a mind uncorrupted -- exsisting only in our dreams...
who is now the machine.
Things that are done can be undone.