Fantasizing Reality

How blissful the release
To romp through the fields of fantasy
Attempting to stay au courant
Unaware of being an obdurate denier.

How Gnostic go such persons,
Accepting bot-like influence,
Rendering reality as inauthentic.

Such mind-sets no longer
comprise information,
but become fantasized emotion,
the schema for narcissism,
a pugilistic approach to fakery.

Might we have a new quasi-realist movement?

Instead of being self-satisfied
Gray-haired gnome-like savant mentalities
With a venerable and undecipherable body of factual knowledge,
Such chooses instead to behave as a servile boot-lick,
Running-dog employee adjunct
Who no longer has trust-tenure,
But must pander to an entitled body of naysayers
Who can choose to rate disinformation
On various social media websites as “hot or not.”

Delusionists are like programmed bots,
with one button—to Deceive
To such thinking, attempting to argue or to reason with such deviance
is akin to persuading maggot-laying blowflies
to acquiesce to reality’s point of view.

Delusion breeds tricksters
As fearsome foes who win arguments
because the inauthentic are unaccountable
and roam outside of reason, mono-minded,
wallowing in dupery.

The bot’s lack of depth or personality
And inability to do more than weigh in on a controversy
Or simply attack
Is mitigated by their ability to gather other bots.
They work in teams and their numbers create
The sense of consensus, which is their great power.

So…

Since bots have no ethnicity, sex, age, or gender,
They have no sin, evil being unknown.
They exist essentially godlike,
And when bots critique a person,
That person has no defense,
As the bot is a specter,
An anonymous disembodied ghost
With no past and no sin.
The bot is God,
Hating sin but loving blood.

Many perceive now that the biblical “original sin” wasn’t the sexual act,
But being born as sinful flesh in all its loathsome carnality.

So…

The answer then for many
Is to but ask:
How can we be more like a bot? More godlike?
The corporate “Instagram” persona is an attempt at this divinity,
As infantilism overwhelms,
Making refulgent fantasy’s influence,
To be inured to capricious notion,
To eventually drown in one’s own juices.

And thus…

The written daily memoir is like pornography,
Taking no special talent or ability to produce it,
Just as pornography is a simple reassurance to its viewer that images are alive,
The daily fantasies are a recitation of events
Whose banality reassures the reader likewise,
Convincing them of their own specialness,
That their avoidance or reality
could likewise be published.

Sad, but true …

Delusional behavior has made reality the hobbyhorse of the denier-elites,
Repellent of accepted truth,
Reducing actuality into vagarious gristle,
Codified falsehood.

Lest we forget…

Truth, formerly a grand principal,
Becomes fantasy’s supplicant,
Cooing to the now-omnipotent fallacies,
And evidence of social media’s tech-totalitarian power.

Social Media’s allowance for untruths
Knocked out integrity’s crisp nourishment
and satiation now comes in a can.