Crumbling it is, crumble it must!

The neon sign boards

on sun dried streets

blued bicycles

and transparent umbrellas

I’m not sure whether I am reading

too much into a dream

or if these are portents

of the distant future

what I imagine is what I am turning into

my iris greener than usual

my mitochondrial pulp

suddenly altered, into

steel and carbon fibre

I am starting to feel the grease

in my veins, and the trepidations

of inorganic pistons

I am going to find

nickel-chrome coats

and pastiche pants

I bought of a market

in a dilapidated skyscraper

moving down a floor at a time

synchronous to the crumbling

only to stop at the hole in the

ground it once was- simple, unadulterated.

These Cartesian arteries seem ripe

for plotting an anarchist’s wet dream

prima causa morbi being the emotional

verbiage that plagued us since Rimbaud.

Now transcend

imagine with me, the reworkings of time

that could be told by you and me

only if we capture our private destinies

and wish to be more than the sum of our parts.

Time will be reconsidered

as will be the accomplishment of a civilization

are we headed where we want to be headed

or are we slave to the passive aggressive plays

of the alphas

and to the consumerist euphemism for brainwashing

surely, we have had enough

the question that has been playing in all our minds

has to be asked

“Is this the world you want to live in?”

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