Ink

I've often wondered about the rashness of slapdash ink. About the innumerable words churned out by machines. On endless repeat. Night. After night. After night. Producing words that threaten to engulf. Click-clack-click out too late, skirt too short. Reproducing narratives that identify only to diminish. Click-clack-click asking for it, was she not? Trapped in the distance between "beauty" and myth. Click-clack-click fair and lovely, oh so gorge. Producing, silencing, reproducing.

I've often wondered about the purposiveness of ink. About how its receptacles pander to its tales. Day. After day. After day. Click-clack-click gold-digger. Momentary distaste. Click-clack-click all hail the supermom. Flipping the page, moving on. Click-clack-click on and on. Ignoring the violence of its design. This architecture of print in its prime. Seeing, and yet unseeing.

Producing, silencing, reproducing.
Seeing, and yet unseeing.