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.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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