|-\_/\_/-|
as paranoia slides, \
smoke swirling air parts.
A wake in ‘nothing’, life formats and follows
revealing slender
red shadow.
Crouched on three legs \
the bleeding sound motion motions
forward.
Beyond me.
I see a drone human? No,
machine - No,
human
- soar through savage landscapes of bestiality : asbestos and
concrete blown-out through hinges.
- though for why does it baffle, a complex ambassador?
- oh bother, you are inferior.
- oh brother, I am inferior.
I am afraid.
I am afraid of death.
I am afraid of the absence.
I am afraid of any fractional number larger than [point] seven two.
An arpeggiator crumbles, tearing new highways straight from our
eyes to the next largest city’s exit freeway. Fresh produce costs so
much these days and I am forced. I am forced to live, - she says
[and though half jokingly, her words hold more truth than you may
think].
A shooting star emancipates. The brief flash will bring - happiness?
No, sorrow - a yearning for the magic that is so rare. I see yellow
house painters and blue scooters torn up as the wind settles in - as
the failure makes apparent - as the wind settles in.
By Sid Baron
21