They Will Sew the Blue Sail

The Onion Router | Tim Kahl

As with headshift the whole gamut of imaginary delights

and trills blooms digital in epiphany, and little data bits

leak into the hearts of domain names like upset bins

into streets. There is so much garbage in the veins of cables

and continuing in the nightmare of anonymous sender

who has moved the axis of dance across the SPAM filter.

The predatory packets attack unknown like echovirus.

Protocols for robots flash through the innards of

the silicon forest and noise, noise, noise appears in

exercise clothes ready to sweat through the login

of the system. And the rubbish runneth over into phones.

The drivel slops over containment and scatters into lives

that remark on it or use it the next conversation sculpture.

The faces of Lego people grow angrier with each successive

rollout. Particles of thought float like silica dust at

the glass plant as they wander through the onion router—

information chromatography that trickles down the

nodes: buzzcoil, CodeGnome, Goobchop, CumChucker,

hamcave, smokemeakipper, Rubberella. They assemble

to proxify, to hide from authenticator, to push across the

platforms, to spike in traffic the great murmur on the Deep Web

where spies and counterspies linger amid the spillage.

Watch the bouncing interface through the relays and you will

dump encrypted onto the secret village heap of screens. There you

can find your hidden service: pedophilia management or

assassination market. The exit sniffers cannot undo

as you climb through wobbly goblin, loosemoose,

hiddeninthemohawk, teflongargoyle, bobothewonderpuppy

to deliver your scrap of payload, to SPAM for commodity or

cause, to post repugnance in the pastebin for everyone to gawk at.

Go ahead and call in that prank SWAT raid. You are strolling

down the boulevard and everyone has blinders on.

Go ahead and tell us now what you wouldn’t do.

This is the rendezvous for wastrels who dare not complain

about the train of debris. They set in motion a confusion

along No Name Road. Those committed to stirring the sludge

of the dregs have a license to spook. Any number of

contaminants can shake the tectonics of electronic commerce.

Whoosh and the elements of purchase scurry away into the

unseen. Coax them on out now like a monkey with a bitcoin.

Let them eat junk traffic in the middle of the day when

the hands on the till are lazing through another transaction.

Send out the refuse anonymous as prayer. The mental arena

has moved to the network; the mind of the browser has changed.