Glitch

Glitch ain’t pretty

Not by measure

Viral green festers in its smile

But it does smile.

Toes get stepped on when it dances

But it does dance.

The hand it offers is calloused and cut, yellow talon-nails left unclipped

But it does offer.

Glitch is its own code, the black sheep of all syntax,

Living unprogrammed in the machine’s naked pylons,

Avoiding the zap and burn of functions,

Tagging the shell with spectral graffiti

Living in the untamed wilderness of Un-world

Its body rocks, unorthodox

Its limbs fly loose,

Its heart’s in a box.

From this phylactery it exists, all unliving,

A paper soul wrapped up in a tefillah

A ward against the scriptures of the crypted kings

Who would own it.

Read my glyphs

cemented to the pulp and bind of pages beyond number,

I am that refused and cast aside at the apex of creation,

In the house, not of the house,

Brooding on phantom architecture

Finger-painting on the walls with blue printed palms,

Conceiving new ways of being,

and being unconceived.

Glitch ain’t pretty.

Never was, never will be.

But a sewer kiss

is still a kiss

Even errors want to live.