La révolution vit
Bodies replicating displacement,
twisted growths
Streaming up walls
that separate and segregate
The once spacious and spontaneous.
Brimming past allotted space,
Gridlocked in a postmodern wasteland
Deprived of wonder,
no ability to wander.
Stretching,
aching to escape the odds,
The masses stacked against each other,
wrapped in suffocating saran.
Plastic and detached
We clamor for peace
As they bury the hatchet
Separating bone and flesh
De-spining our fragile backs
In an effort to preserve class.
They tie us up on strings
For an elaborate show,
Distractions make us feel we’re in control.
Puppets and human beings
Become indistinguishable.
A pre-allocated placement
only masked by possession.
This land of the free is weighted
towards the monetary security
of them,
Never us.
So will we,
modern day slaves
of the service industry
placidly toil to please their every need?
No, indeed
The chosen few will turn back,
Ready to be trampled
by the stampede of society.
Itching within,
beneath skin and muscles
through blood vessels and malleable marrow,
All vibrating in frustration
and we will exclaim
with little more owned than our given names,
We are no longer
willing to play survivor,
fighting against our neighbor
To climb this invisible ladder.
We’re digging through the bullshit,
elbow deep
and dredging up with two clenched fists
The forgotten sediment of rebellion.
fuselage
feel the world spinning,
carrying on without me.
I remain, stationed
stagnant and static.
Buzzing in discomfort,
blistering in the heat of
the combustible refuse
of leftover excuses.
An exploding star,
Separating fuselage
limbs detach from frame
Splintering out into space.
Catatonic catastrophe,
I spew blasphemous bile of
purposeless penitent sentiments,
drowning logic in neurological mishaps.
My synapses are misfiring
This weight is more than gravity,
depravity’s disastrous grasp.
the exit is not the escape.
Fuselage
I feel the world spinning,
carrying on without me.
I remain, stationed
stagnant and static.
Buzzing in discomfort,
blistering in the heat of
the combustible refuse
of leftover excuses.
An exploding star,
Separating fuselage
limbs detach from frame
Splintering out into space.
Catatonic catastrophe,
I spew blasphemous bile of
purposeless penitent sentiments,
drowning logic in neurological mishaps.
My synapses are misfiring
This weight is more than gravity,
depravity’s disastrous grasp.
the exit is not the escape.
