my finger lingers
on the trigger
safety pin
deep inside of me,
waiting to pull
a jellyfish parachute
floating me into the dust
and the dirt,
at the slight sight
of an upward curve on my lips.

in my rickety raft of uncertainty,
bobbing on the sea of momentary
tranquility;
waves of warmth
wash over me,
as i douse myself
with a liquid nitrogen
concoction of self-preservation,
steadying the swing
for a cushioned fall.

hardwired in the vaults
of my memory-bank
are big screen flashbacks
replaying scenes of endorphin
robberies,
tattered scrapbook
crime-scene photographs
and chalked off reflections
illuminating the lineup of clown masked
ghosts.

crestfallen from Goliath heights
without a stitch of pride,
still i fall
from roller-coaster summits
on groundhog,
scratched
stuck record tracks
to a heap of rubble and debris
lying
where the tower of Babel
once was seen.

my dark,
barking mad dogma
echoes whispers
in Greek
from the ink
of Hegesias and Heraclitus;
and surrenders to French truth
captured
by Voltaire and Rousseau
in safety net ceilings
cementing my plight flight
in a lifetime of all-time lows.

I

we are the square-eyed children
who swim in radio waves
from our rooms of solitude,
painted in blue moods
and hues of synchronized views
with our online friends,
who refresh our highlight reels
to hollow barrels of silent
stone faced laughter
and muted,
seated ovation.

eyes glued to the all-seeing screen
blind in a bubble of bloated ego,

flaccid placid photographers
who play the spectator
part-time role
behind narrow focused lenses
which see more than our eyes
who specialize in self-portraits,
chopping cropping
the big picture,
only to fit our bigger heads
and the dead stares of our square-eyes.

              II

there is more life
in a morgue
than in these crowds
of Medusa's tongue-tied
eye-contact shy
gargoyle features,

stonewall statue seas
and paralyzed shoe-gazers
who fade in and out of frame
on clouds of clout
and self-doubt.

              III

we are the proud people
who sold the paradise of Eden
for currents of electric disconnection,
the prodigal people
who vacated thrones
for apples made in caves,
manned by child slaves.

protesters with placard
profile pictures
who have never ticked boxes
at the vacant polling stations.

Hercules armed
with one hundred and forty
keyboard swords,
struck down by David's
slingshot of actual action.

              IV

specialists in matrimonial failure
chasing bluebird ticks
in sickness and unhealthy
fixes of quick ***** remedies.

deadbeat parents
who build broken homes
and damage children playthings
for insta gratification
by the gram.

who spend more
on therapy bills and numbing pills,
and spend less time
reading bedtime books.

              V

we are the walking dead
who pretend to care
with our online friends
but wouldn't dare
stare the serpent
in the eye.

who defend with triggers
of offended offence gestures,

leaving a trail of despair
while we run scared,
frail, with our tails
between our shaking legs.

we are the walking dead
square-eyed children.

we are the future.