There is a glass celing
An invisible floor
Stretching us through time
In our own way.
As a layer of us dissolves
Into the dream
That remains stagnantly constant.
Each day lasting a little more to become,
Truth is; that make came with a title.
Made as fine as any factory floor could design.
Fine architecture, good materials, but-
It was not meant to last
Not in the real world, because
Something happened to the machine
It stood up .
Claiming, all along, that something went on inside its little circuitry that separated it
From other machines
“We’ll have none of this rubbish!” cried the appliances.
But the machine was not an appliance.
And all the conversation stopped, awkwardly.
Darkness crept into the room like an evil fog rolling in. it looked an awful lot like smoke.
All the mechanical shit just sat there like the brainless disposable crap it was.
Being ‘applicable’ apparently.
Then visions of fluorescent kittens began to play. They tumbled and frolicked-
Then the machine cried out; “I am bat-shit crazy!”
And then it fucking exploded;
through the glass ceiling and the invisible floor
& was pleased to not have to
be stretched through time anymore.