Have fun with your pink killing machines
The lives aren't real. Programmed
and paroled for play in the places
we create for them. Avatars
of our aversion, our averted faces
pale with artificial light.
Like the fake sad moon
that condemns us from above.
Our animated conversations'
greatest pleasure lies in the fact
that, like our shining examples of lives,
they have no meaning.
Enjoy your time in the walled garden.
The illusion that you are among friends. Knowing
so very much and yet
so laughably little
walk down those halls.
This labyrinth stuck together with sickly
sadism, and, amidst the popsicle sticks,
patrolled by the sly revolving sabres of a terrible masochism as well.
Their whirr a monotonous whispered plea
for forgiveness, comfort, hope,
more pain, more despair, more emptiness.
Award yourself martyr status
and a big fat greasy gold star:
this is paradise
and here we are all united by our discontent,
and here we are all separated
by the knowledge that paradise
is all downhill from here.