Clack Clack Clack

1 Today’s Fergus lives under a low ceiling
2 in his indistinct spec home,
3 in his under-engineered neighborhood, 
4 where property is a pervasive concept.
5
6 Clack clack clack clangs against pressboard walls.
7 Blue light permeates the windows to his mythical soul.
8 Opera like glass, faint and fragile, sings his purpose
9 to dust bunnies breeding in the corners of his life.
10
11 Clack clack clacking comes from his fingers,
12 while his eyelids are curtains held up with duct tape, 
13 and his slack jaw, incessantly speaking, mutters streaming dream aloud
14 to cluttered room buzzing with artificial power.
15
16 Upon his throne as oil presses through massive engine gears,
17 Fergus smears to his seat 
18 slumping into his fate, immobile, 
19 with neither autonomy nor authority.

10.19.20