my brother hits keys on keyboards
strumming insensitive
colons and parentheses
until they resemble
the taut slips of guitar strings
people used to use to make music

and the computer wheezes and screams
out the cacophony of electronic noise
he reigns into hollow
punching staccatos
into the burnt neon melodies
that are not born of bodies
or the blunt clack of metal against palm

but are incubated
festering on the white evil emptiness
of zeroes and ones
waiting to burn and breathe
and split
into the gasps and hums and
broken vibratos
that wield fine borderlines
between art and madness
the last clarion cry against a world
that has grown far too technicolored