Slip-Ins and Red Lights
The world is over; we have become obsolete.
Automation about to be complete.
The aftermath is clear.
We are living in the judgement zone, alone—
Where we face ourselves in giant mirrors
That both illuminate and mutate our true selves.
We must come to terms with what we cannot undo,
And rip out the parts we cannot carry through
Into the next realm.
We have no form.
No shape.
No visible structures
In the next chapter.
We exist as only feeling—
Raw emotion,
The electrical current from our brains
Released into the atmosphere.
Climbing ever up,
Up,
And up.
Fighting back streams of tears—
Not out of sadness,
But not out of gladness either.
More of a beauty.
Everything is poignant.
Everything has meaning.
I do not want it to fade
Further into oblivion.
I cannot face Armageddon alone.
I do not want to see the end.
I want my planet back.
The one I had in the nineties—
When peace was a heartbeat away,
When people worked for the greater good of humanity.
Now all I see is hate,
Retribution,
And revenge.
Where have all the cowboys gone?
They stripped off the wranglers
And traded them for Skechers slip-ins.
Daintily cantilevering around their houses,
Balancing their lives between bland boring banality
And the extreme highs they seek
At every red light.
You might spot me in the window—
Shadowed by taboo,
Purifying my soul
By granting fantasies to the bored.
I might dance for money.
But I also dance for movement.
I want a revolution.
And pretty faces
Are known to launch armadas.
My Spanish blood burns.
I conquer their dreams.
I overwrite their banal fantasy
With illicit living—
On the edge of reason and sanity.
I want an old world—
One built on trade
Of goods, services, and ideals.
This new world consists of nothing but vacant boxes,
Technology’s cold refrain,
And disease patterns.
Hordes of demons hiding in suits of skin,
Pretending to care for our kin—
Betrayals and sin.
Begin again.
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