Posted in Beats by AA on February 27, 2012

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


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.

A premonition

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

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.

Spoken Word at

About these ads

Comments Off on //


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 39 other followers