A terminal juncture
sits behind doors
in the walls
off the grid
of the scale
of the stave of my mass.
Ushered in an upper echelon
atop the pyramid
built amidst fire and haze,
older, fatter, gladder, bladder
plugged in the system,
a sensible cubicle,
a fixed rubics cube.
The meme gene
and its screen between us,
we are moulded and told
1 plus 1 is two,
two plus two is five dimes
-how it chimes on the hour you spent
swiping ka-ching on that Mercedes Benze
to validate a quote of status quo,
I have stripped bare, for much less than this.
24 hour solitary confinement,
silent solipsistic bliss,
a heist on the hive,
zeitgeist for the wise,
deciding the colour of my child’s eyes,
his measure of
disposition, ammunition, superstition.
of the demolition of human condition,
as I sing along
to another pop song.
What fortune’s fate is at stake
when this thick and heavy gloss
across a host of different ghosts
Here in your peripheral vision,
a collision of untold souls
each a piece laced in belief racing to speak
a story of eons ago,
the one of
a small grace note in this unfinished symphony
in which I am prophet and plot,
the root of the eye in a heart,
the whole in your neck at the base of your spine,
born of proverbial, perennial, umbilical cords
cut by the blade of my scythe.
This fabric weaved by a myriad of minds
wired with buttons,
I push them.