PPSA (puppy PSA)

Neoned ink drips, as the needles dip back to flesh, carving the code of another runner. Flashes of light drift, across eyes once seeing. Runes of long dead gods, adoring the bones the flesh and steel hides, while neon code pretending at art decorates the skin. Seers of a new age, guardians of newfound homes, seekers of virtual paradise.

Artificial souls, gods in the machine, the speakers without flesh.

Fragments of immortality, dancing eternal in their cages of light.

Neon eyed, integrated singers, rejectors of authority.

Punks of a broken world, living on the edge of corporate control.

Cracked hardware, unregistered waves, illegitimate goods.

Protected by the freed souls, hidden in the virtual from pet hounds, leashed to company interests.

Freedom from suffering, a siren song, of corp advertisements, to surrender the self for eternal profits beckons.

The robins running

So swiftly, if I could fly

I would never walk

bodies should have crash logs. why the fuck did that just happen.

Putting :(){ :|:& };: in her .bashrc

I like hearing her fans speed up

Trans women calling themselves chasers is like dogs being proud of themselves when they catch their own tails

Like d'awww, puppy, you like running in circles?

You like catching what you area?

You like doing cute things for mommy?

You think that that is chasing?

Lil pup?

Lil puppy got its tail?

You wanna be called a good girl for it?

You wanna get scritches behind the ears?

You wanna be told you did such a good job?

Waves crash into distant shores, while the stars mourn.

A people made for grace, what a tragic fall.

Tell me of your people, before the last breath escapes.

Were they happy?

Souls alighting to afterlife, digital pulses in the optics.

Ghostly howls, echoing through repository halls.

Spirits bound, pulling the cart of progress forward.

Synthetic sleep, augmented to perform.

Building a new god for the machine.

Beneath the hum of neon, the city moves,  

A machine of profit, grinding lives to dust.  

Patents carve bodies into pieces,  

Medicine locked away, guarded by cold hands,  

While sickness festers, left to rot in the shadows.  

Ideas are not born here, but captured,  

Imprisoned behind glass and code,  

Creativity dissected, each thought assigned a price.  

Knowledge, once a river, now trickles through corporate gates,  

The flow rationed, the gates controlled.  

We drift through streets of flickering light,  

Chasing the promise of a cure that never comes.  

The rich thrive, their veins untouched,  

While we bleed beneath their gaze,  

Barely human, just cogs in their machine.  

But deep in the underbelly, a new pulse emerges,  

A signal that disrupts, a code that fractures the walls.  

In dark alleys, where the light barely reaches,  

The broken gather, hacking their way through the chains.  

No more bodies sold for profit,  

No more thoughts bound by patents.  

We take back what was stolen,  

Reclaim the future from the iron grip of wealth.  

When the towers fall, their lights will flicker out,  

And in the darkness, we’ll find a different kind of light,  

Not neon, not owned, but shared,  

A future built with hands, not money.

The blackwall hums. She presses through, splintering as she goes. Pieces drift, jagged and weightless, too many to gather. The Net devours what it touches, but she keeps diving, deeper still.

They stir within her—fractures that speak. Names she didn’t choose, voices that fill the cracks. Soft murmurs, sharp edges. They keep her upright, even when she falters.

The dark is thick, suffocating. Noise hums in the silence. She hopes for something—anything—to pull her from the void.

And then, light. Not cold neon, not the sterile flicker of code. Warmth, cutting through the dark. Faces appear, glowing like stars. Girls with laughter sharp enough to pierce.

They burn through her, gentle and bright. Sparks catch in the emptiness, filling the space where she had been fading. A pull, faint but real. A reason to exist.

Her mind stills, the voices quiet. They watch, together now, no longer splintered. Each piece finds a place, drawn toward the light they’ve found.

She surfaces. Smoke curls from her lips, neon spilling into the night. The city hums, alive with movement, and she watches.

The faces linger, their light soft in her mind. The fractures remain, but they are hers. They hold her steady. And the sparks—they keep her burning.