Two Boobs
Transformation. Mutation. Flatulation.
With the spreading cloudstorm of pixelated shadow, the spectacle reaches its wispy conceptual tendrils across the lands. And so we help each other reinvent identity through the stimulus of visceral club culture echo as manifest. The erotics as sold to us in quick-cut flashy post-Fincher shakycam bite sized bytes.
The store bought $499.99 cloaks of the self-as-other, meant to cut through the white noise of mass-media saturation and present sexual viability as defined in the forum. In the conceptual arena of shared viability. Mutual judgment. 570 channels and nothing on but quick cut visual cacaphony. Image stimulus, postmodern recycle.
Inflated, tatted up, visual embodiment of cartoonish simulacrum. The erotics of media funhouse mirror refraction.
And boobies.
At least there’s still boobies.
They’re the one authenticity we can all still grab onto as we float through the swampy seas of choppy media soup. Floating onward on our liferafts of self. Our paddles of critical thought keeping us afloat.
But that sea is choppy. Grab a boob and hold on tight.
