1. Make broccoli delicious again.
You have memories, sure, but then who doesn't know where you live these days? Camping out in the wilderness until the controversy blew over seemed like a good idea at the time, of course, but that was before the anaesthetics kicked in and you lay there, boiling, and unable to feel the sweat rolling down your leg. They hacked it off with a kind of efficiency that was easy to mistake for care but who's complaining now? Not you! Because you've still got your wits, and the planes don't fly so low anymore, and you never were a big fan of running anyway. Yeah, memories, how about them, now that you get to control when they appear, for example, or when to delay them, send them bawling into your dreams with a swish, the warlords gesturing over 3-D maps of mosques, glistening rivers barely visible between the cracks of competing glaciers sliding across dead moonscapes, ordnance going off, adrenalin bangs in capsule form, and still you bray 'Bring it on, Charlie!!', like you mean it, like you never had forgotten where you hid them, typing in your new password without even looking, or deliberately keying in gibberish answers to standard security prompts. Name of first pet? Eklhferlhl. First girlfriend? Gpwjfrqe;ngqgnntqgwgq Nhwereferhhpfqhppqqhpi. That should keep them busy for a day or two, at least, and in the interim you can retrace your final actual step, backwards into the gun nest, the hot weapon slinging wetly into your palm, as laser-guided melodies peep-peep you to sleep, deep in a dream world you created with a click.
We do not go on fishing expeditions. We do not obtain IP addresses and then go seek the internet of what they have looked at. That is web browsing.
Neil Gaughan, Australian Federal Police, 16 October 2012
Go seek the internet of what they have looked at: check out the intranet of what they have cached. Lock up their upskirts with interweb colophons; jack off their search histories with hypertext jam. Tag all the ones with their intertube braggings; patch into interwebs of their grimy hackathons. Phish for rhyme schemes inside HTML buttplugs; WordPress simulacra of all the sad expeditions. Cut 'n' paste previews of lightbox pretensions; authorise sonnet stealers, lurking, 'n' browsing. Hose down the strict implications of OMGWTFBBQ; deprecate cascading shit-storms of fecal policing. LOL at open tabs, all their darkwebs & dreamings; then go seek the internet of what they have looked at.
Imagine a city with no streets but networks of amputated limbs. An officious city of criminal investigations and inquests whose soul is a square of cheap, grey carpet and a water dispenser. The tinkle of pachinko, the sudden sirens of attack. Those women with the hand bills, so stubborn and intent upon their mission, invading the bodyspace of the factory workers like an influenza. Sheets of steel carried by a dozen men at a time towards the railhead. Rain in bursts of noise upon their heads. Somewhere there is a map of the city's improvements but no one I speak with has seen it. Wheelchair-bound ladies protest at the new constructions rising up around them in terrifying spirals. No-one is allowed to see them. Behind their riot shields, the policemen are only boys. Some of them wear white sneakers, as if they have been called in from basketball practice. Sleeping street people curled up like scraps of paper on the subway stairs, trusting that the spirits will protect their small change, their street salaries. Mandarin peels in the gutters. Sewer smells that hit the face like a nervous pigeon, the frightful proximity of disease. A hollow city, stained with sad skirmishes and pickled fistfights. Gouged-out eyes that speak. Tables hoarded under orange shelters. Old men dancing in parks for citizens, while other citizens peer out at the sky like lost kittens in bamboo. Squeals. Drums. Discarded cloths, blood-stained. News of another separatist attack filters through stale cups of coffee, cigarette butts neatly stacked like bullets. A simulated odyssey through virtual historical battles gains popularity in the parlours. No one speaks of it; these things require no advertisements. Beware the reconstituted cutlets of crumbed meat: that way annihilation lies. Pull back the tarpaulin to reveal today's wares— a rack of twisted and burnt squid, dried suckers and flattened jerky. Remove hospital identification barcode. Shoulder arms.
i sing the dead body of a dolphin drift-netted, snatched from the envelope of the glinting sea & i sing her name replaced (& i sing her gender inverted but that jingle? you'll never hear me crooning no one you see is smarter than he coz he was a she & her real name was Cathy i sing the remorse of her tanned TV trainer's tears—they struck a false note, as i recall, on the day he returned to visit long after the cameras had packed up & left her, forgotten her body, her brain captive on film stills in a deep tank, discarded just like yesterday's meat she swivelled & turned to sadly fix her one eye on the old man's boat shoes, their salt-water stainings, sand engravings & mackerel scents, memories of bud & little sandy (wunderkind brothers, grown-up, with fame in their blood faster than lightning (or was it boned-up on speed could they give a rat's about Cathy the dolphin? did they ever come to visit? can you spare a light? sorry, no smoking in Sea World, but if i had a dollar for every youngster who knew her I'd pass my hat to her sobbing old trainer who'd punch it & shout: you killed her! all of you idiots killed her! gaaaaaaah! (although apparently dolphins can commit suicide, the tears in his glass eye never did seem to dry when he described her last moment in the tank & the bubbles as she sank to its fake sandy floor & just . . . stayed there, forever, or at least until her breathing stopped (it, too, neglected, abandoned, no longer just living in that world full of wonder, let alone flying there under ( . . . ah, under the sea a slave to its glinting theme-song death march: no-one you (no-one you see (is smarter than (smarter than she, she, she, she . . .