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, I emerge older, fatter, gladder, bladder lackened, plugged in the system, a sensible cubicle and 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 more than this.
24 hours 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, premonition and 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 does glow. 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.