Fighter jets ran out of fuel
I was digging a grave for my dresses when it started raining
The little hole I made grew big and wide and deep
For a second I thought that was the end of me but it stopped just as I ran out of place to run
After checking to see if all my limbs weren’t missing
I looked into the hole and saw a red eye big as the back of an elephant’s ass starring up right at me all deranged and angry looking.
Mama won’t believe me when I tell her ’bout this.
Mother sat on the beach stool out front
Watched the cars and baked in the sun
I always snuk out back like a cat
Payed HER a visit
She lived behind a locksmith shop where her father worked
Right next to a tall mountain; almost like a wall reaching for the sun
We talked ’bout all sorts of stuff.
These violet orbs hung over her head like discarded halos running out of power.
It makes my kidneys sore thinking ’bout them days.
I’ll just get on with feeding the rhinos and take my daily hike now.
The police van parked next to the hopeless crime scene.
Two officers exited; one of them grew up next door.
She had a face that projected duty; everyone was quiet.
They put on gloves, pointed and wrote notes; time hovered.
She addressed me; “The gun?”
I stuttered; shaking my head.
After writing down more notes; the officers lit the scene.
They watched it burn for a few minutes; then left.
The flame would burn for generations. Engulfing our little town.
It caught my eye during a routine morning.
I was mowing the lawn and I saw it.
My friend always says “Gina, you’ve got bionic eyes.”
I believed it that day.
Once I got closer; I saw it was an axe.
Polished maple wood handle, an edge so sharp it sang out a slicing tone which cut through the silent autumn wind.
The Orchid Oak Tree was particularly menacing this morning; it boasted its immensity on days that were going to be stale, eventless.
Everyone around the town would picnic around the hill it was perched upon.
Lest it release agents that produced stinging nightmares.
But this axe… I wonder.
«It’s in your hands» a thought runs up my spine; tickling the tips of my fingers.
Another gush of wind. I squint my eyes.
Bending down and lifting it up.
Barking electronic voice boxes
Ghostly static persisting,
insisting on outdated data,
eroded ideals and fossilised schemata.
Upgrades are slow with time standing in the way.
«What’re the algorithm specs?
Any word on the paradigm progress?»
Nails spin out, face stretches out; senses phase out.
Digital zombies barking with electronic voice boxes.
She’s reading The Book
Reading it with care
Lingering over every word
Pronouncing each dusty syllable
Her clock ticks along.
Ghosts behind the microwave
Buzzing, listening; guilty pleasures.
When tomorrow arrives again;
She’ll do it over.
Until death doth sever.
Make no mistake about why these
babies are here; they are here to
replace us – Jerry Seinfeld