Feeding on Plastic

A purpose inside the plastic of it all
Is hard to find
When everything stretches, twists
Like a million instant silver ribbons
Seemingly sublime

Reality burns through the shadowed concrete floors
Burns through every waking and sleeping day
It reflects off the rising glass
In a dulled, distant gray
The place where everyone looks but never sees

Meaning travels through the eye of moving squares
And voices through a twisted string of metals
Which doesn't really exist anymore
Active and blissfully unsettled
Inside each life that plugs in

Everything is clear, and better of course
Everything is better, in the clear sense of speed
Like the fulfilled desires of a human
Insatiably feeding on a machine that feels to feed
A machine that moves beyond the appetite of plastic

Awake Enough

Faint lines sketch the shade,
lightly at first,
under the inhuman eye

Ink seeps into the pores,
as the morning rays flood

Each an overflowing reservoir,
passing over every depression

Like a sleepless artist dreaming a tired dream,
smooth black pools create descending lines,
rapidly now,
in race of the unknown

Hardened ink turns into a marble-black surface

The liquid below sinks deeper,
abbsorbing into the submersed stream,
that breaks the symmetry of awareness

A tattooed callus of consciousness

Sealing the sleepy artist,
as he draws himself,
beneath the hardened ceiling of ink

With darkened eyes of his very own