Poem : The Potential of Escalator X

It's half past the last reflex

sat in a basement

with fingertips of white squares

built within the archives of angel heads

we crawl from our incongruent sunsets

and arrive at our feet.

We jolt

towards the first precautionary step

onto the stationary escalator

like the spontaneous awkwardness,

of waking from a falling dream.

These constructs spill over with the bland expressions of cotton.

We scratch at the surface with retail machinery,

and arrive at Desolation Peak

with broken minds and broken pens.

My natural abandon of ecstasy

is lost in the illumination of shitcom curses

and

your body,

curves with

metal drops draped over

the cold radiators of the soul.

They never seem to make a noise.

You are never realised,

your escalators lead nowhere.

You are an anagram of the retrospect

relying on vocabulary

of animals with default clipboard intellect,

salesmen gorging on ambiguous pictures,

whilst selling overpriced axioms

to the future.

We'll walk down the up escalators in an effort to live forever.

We'll seal it with the semantic gestures of an 'x'

because my love for the nowhere extends

to the genius of the intangible,

the incapacitating umbilical intellect,

the embracing suicidal paradigm

periodically producing algorithmic signs

from the refines of parallel musings

unseen

between disappearing staircases.