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Ushered in an upper echelon

atop a pyramid built amidst fire and haze,

I emerge older, fatter, gladder,

bladder lackened,

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.