# the power of bad cyberpunk compels thee specifically neo noir private investigator monologue composition sitting alone at the wilfully analogue typewriter one found online for 200 old pre crash dollars naturally plastic not including postage and packaging megacity traffic noise and saxophone solo piped in over the lab speakers one's only companion tonight the unceasing white noise hiss of acid rain hitting dirty sidewalks outside still desperately imagining one was or ever could be anything more or less than another cheap slush-pile hack not on the lookout for a decent sentence but simple artistic ego validation one's favorite bullet dented whiskey flask in the inner jacket pocket longing for an existential refill a fluorescent gun of alien origin in a shoulder holster found last week on a mega-structural hypercorporate window ledge downtown the starched high desert whiteness of the page casually slaps across labor-stung eyes as the idiot brain strains once more for 'the right words' yet few never had any good reason to type them how if one could only approach the false problem of lab code writing in the correct way at the correct angle it all might fall into place and express meaning yet the only memories available are the smooth tanned legs striding into one's office late last august blunt cut bangs above dark unyielding eyes of sensual treachery poor schmuck throw away that stupid looking writerly hat stop try-harding to tap into dead zones of rnd only soul undead nerds care about // republic of bob