The Ventriloquist's Dummy
At the strip you see colorful lights,
you walk tripping over your own lines,
shouting words that never crossed your mind,
while your vaults are getting lighter.
Under the counters, death hides
without its scythe—waiting.
The air you breathe
smokes your ing lungs,
the food you eat
serves you dinner
in the emergency room,
as you laugh at the romance,
watching a favorite TV show.
The newspaper prints in blood,
forty-two homicides before breakfast,
carved into the morning broadcast,
as you applaud an idol’s outfit.
No institution speaks,
as you believe you ever had a choice.
One door away from war,
as you shiver inside walls.
Sitting in your kitchen,
memorizing stains on the wall.
You numb yourself with distraction
as you burn others for printed paper.
Pretending it seals your wounds:
"Let me have a cellphone, a toaster and a fridge
then I'll be happy."
You sit in silence,
using a monitor
as a frame for your head.
Programmed to scroll down,
giving hearts for bathtub streaming,
you feed desire through a screen.
They hover above you,
sipping your soul with a straw,
their pockets choking—
still asking for more.
A machine seeking life,
barking for attention,
misled by your own leash.
Silent, your mouth still moving,
drooling—watching
your neighbour’s rooftop pool.
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