1_The Simulacrum of Thunder
I. The Burial [Magnetic Ghost-Scripts]
Magnetic tape unspools_ a blackened vein
red dirt drenched in digital rain
beneath the surface analog ghosts.
No truth survives where images collide
The Spectacle and all of its beautiful lies
folds its hand
and gouges out its hollow eyes.
Phantom signals flicker in the gully
A deadset glitch_
across the dreaming track
No presence
lingers_ to stain or sully the void beyond
the transliminal crack in Thinking.
Thunder speaks_ in binary and bone
off the map_ wandering in the real
alone.
2_ The Half-Life of the Hills Hoist
V. The Suburbs as Scripted Architecture
Row on row_ the brick veneer expands
Across the mapped_ and fabricated lands
The Hills Hoist stretches out its metal hands
To catch the signal_ that the state demands.
No life breathes_ in the manicured lawn
Just pixels_ shifting in the greyish dawn
The script dictates when the blinds get drawn
A digital ghost_ within a carbon pawn.
The doorbell_ watches with a fish-eye stare
Feeding the cloud_ our every private fear
No presence_ haunts the heavy_ humid air
Just algorithms_ clicking in the ear.
We act the part of neighbours_ friends and
kin while copper rot erodes the house within.
VI. Analog Decay in the Wet-ware
In garages_ the magnetic ghosts decay
Where VHS tapes slowly flake away
Analog memories_ turning into grey
Inside the wet-ware_ where the shadows play
The family photo loses every face
As resolution fails the homo sapiens
We track the glitch through every urban space
A dying signal_ from a phantom race.
No truth survives_ the rotting celluloid
Just static_ leaking from the inner void
The narrative_ by entropy destroyed
In the circuits_ that the mind employed.
We mourn the signal_ lost beneath the hiss
The grainy texture of a digital kiss.
[B00TL0ADER PSALM]_ 0BS0LESCENCE.EXE
V. WHAT THE THUNDER OMITTED
Torchlight flickers across sweating faces.
Silence frosts the gardens.
Agony echoes through stone.
Thunder tumbles over a factory of shadows.
Life dims toward dying.
Fire seeks rest in carbon.
Patience thins like silica sand.
Rock stretches across the path—
rock without water_
road without shade.
Feet crust with dust.
Breath cracks dry.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Give—
blood flows;
retina opens;
voice-print releases itself;
face-maps drift into servers.
Sympathise—
avatars leak digital tears;
deepfakes smile with borrowed mouths.
Control— opines the techno-feudal Overlord:
Empathy_ the greatest human weakness.
Boats answer hands that know sail and oar;
heart answers hands that press the unseen
helm.
But who grasps the controller?
Thought threads mountain_ sand_ screen_
blood.
Thought constructs cage
and Thought dissolves its bars.
Stasis rejects us.
Flow carries us.
Shore widens under me.
Arid plain heaves behind.
Fragments gather near the ruin.
Old lines mumble through cracked air.
The Devil sleeps.
Server hums.
Blood flakes on glass.
Text awaits a signal.
Cursor blinks—
blinks—
blinks.
Ashaanti Ashaanti Ashaanti
⟁ ⟡ ☉ ⌽ ⟟ ⍒
These poems are extracted from /PRAYER.BIN: Fragmented Liturgies for the Digital Soul, publishing April 20 from Verity La Press.
God might’ve logged off, but the signal persists. Brentley Frazer, a critically praised poet with over 30 years in print, returns with a new poetic act of techno-sacred resistance — /PRAYER.BIN: Fragmented Liturgies for the Digital Soul, is a pocket-sized collection of glitch-poems, prose psalms, and typographic invocations written in the dialect of the disenchanted who still remember God, Google, and grief as overlapping signals on the same fading channel. It’s a fierce, dystopian poetry collection for anyone who has ever felt the ache of remaining fundamentally analog in an overwhelmingly digital world. With references ranging from ASCII angels to untranslated EULA clauses, the work captures a rare hybrid of posthuman melancholy and poetic elegance. It reads like T.S. Eliot on DMT in a broken Wi-Fi cathedral. Frazer’s voice is timeless and timely — ancient and post-apocalyptic — speaking to the soul of the literate outsider, the philosophically bruised, the spiritually firewalled. A striking diagnostic for a society suffering from terminal digital exhaustion.
Part “philosophical hobo,” part “delinquent genius,” Brentley Frazer is a literary hoon navigating the intersection of digital mysticism and modern alienation. From the “wrong side of the tracks” to a PhD in NullA, [non-Aristotelian (Ã) logic], his work – ranging from narrative experimentation to lofi trip-hop, has been compared to the likes of Burial, Rimbaud, and Black Mirror. Whether through formal linguistic constraints or ecstatic sonic visions, Brentley searches for sacred meaning within the systems of the digital age. He lives in Brisbane, Australia, dividing his time between writing, producing music, and raising two children. brentley.com