A Verbal Fig Leaf · Track 50 · closer
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🌮 (2020s) — ⭐ CLOSER. Not a word at all. A pictogram of a food. We went from 'grope for trout in a peculiar river' to a taco, and the reason is that the trout line would never clear moderation. Sing the collapse without mourning it — the instinct is unchanged, only the censor got faster. VOLUME: V. THE ALGORITHM, 2000–2025. THE DODGE THIS ERA: ⭐ THE PAYOFF. The censor is no longer a person, a church or a drawing room — it is a MACHINE that does not laugh, cannot be charmed, and never leaves the room. So the evasions get shorter, dumber and faster: initials, misspellings, emoji. Not because anyone got less filthy — because the filter reads faster than we can be clever. The volume must be genuinely funny and quietly devastating. Sing the AVOIDANCE, never the anatomy.
No audio yet — generation pending.
Lyrics
The glowing glass is cold against the thumb. The system checks the spelling as I go. I tried a sentence but the letters wouldn't run, The automated filter told me no. It doesn't have a mother, or a blush to try and spare, It only has a list of what's allowed to happen there. So I swipe across to the second page Where the little printed groceries live. I don't need a metaphor to set the stage, I just have a single thing to give. Folded in the middle, looking good enough to eat, Sending you a picture of a late-night treat. The scanner reads the data but it hasn't got a clue, I'm letting the menu do the talking to you. Four hundred years ago they took an afternoon To weave a clever riddle for the king. Now the shadow-ban is sweeping with a broom, And nobody has the time for everything. The mind jumps the gap before the sentence even forms, Swapping out the weather for the icon of a storm. I backspace the noun, and I feed it a shape, A thirty-byte visual making the escape. U plus one F three two E, Rendered in a yellow pixel shell. The data doesn't trigger any penalty, And the moderator bot is sleeping well. It has no idea what we're having for tea. So I swipe across to the second page Where the little printed groceries live. I don't need a metaphor to set the stage, I just have a single thing to give. Folded in the middle, looking good enough to eat, Sending you a picture of a late-night treat. The scanner reads the data but it hasn't got a clue, I'm letting the menu do the talking to you. Just a grocery list. Just picking up some dinner in the dark. The machine ticks over, clearing the remark. Send. Delivered. Read.