The clock struck me across the face
Disavowed of a license to hunt
And the debilitating guilt and task
Of trying not to choke my species
Out of existenceI leap into the void of digital idolatry
The magical abyss – the deep web
Losing myself in innumerable screaming voices
Selling wares, skins, souls and truths
All conceivable conceptions availed
In different fonts, colours, tits and prices
I rummage through the junkyards of knowledge
Sifting endlessly through painful contributions
Religions, systems, markets, libraries and obituaries
Allst the while praying for blindness
By some new strain of virus brought on
By looking too much at the lights 

Let me remain Oedipus and remain a creature of the depths
Our Icarus will blot out the sun itself: 

Knowing all too well that if our kind could buy the sun
They would turn it off for longer to sell more light