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?”
