Days of old and new.

Days of old and new…
The gaze scans, ignoring truth.
The day’s plan abhors the loose.
The petal’s opening…
The settled, no swimming in dregs.
We tread where others dread.
In stead we stand for dead silenced
that no longer speak for themselves.
Yet many trout mouthed exploit experience.
They bid the looking up and out
and the neglect of in and down.
Everyone has the answer…
“Ain’t I good enough ‘massa’?”
“Whip me into shape and likeness of you.”
“Pay me more of less than my due.”
What madness?
How tragic?
The bowing and scraping for scraps age…
Inundated and over-stimulated; vast vantage…
Mass advantage of the programmers…
The advent of the machines…
Siri’s sarong and veil…
Robotic heads simulacrum face…
Mockeries made receive jaded praise.
We’ve seen too much.
We’re numb to the “sir” prizes they spring upon us.
Soon they’ll see us nighted, craning our necks… like Ichabod,
For the spectacle they’ve prepared us for.
1984 Animal Farm Raw.
©2016 Errol Percival Jr. (Daiikiru Maximillion™)
Black Sage Entertainment™ Bluespyryt™

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