Asleep at the Wheel

The obscenely convincing, have arrived in their stealth mobiles. We are made to unmake-belief, to regurgitate Saran wrapped words. Wide-eyed we watch the spreading creep of windowless thought-factories. Druids rage for the loss of their tongues. Magic dragons puff obesely and cannot now climb their spines. Combative batmen tussle with spitting cats. It all makes no-sense, and yet we know the fantasy is built on self-destructing concrete, we see now how red lipstick smothers us with a smirk in the dark. Too late to run for cover. Even as we slumber the mother of all bombs gives birth to yet more pre-packaged fictions.