Jack is in a Box

we are spawn of a father
whole steely wad won sole rights
to the metal uterus of the great machine
and we have all become great-
with our looking glasses and
that voice which tells us that we're
at the top of that curve,
where we bask in our own glory
we roll over and sit
and play dead
but we cannot see over walls
and we will jump after a ball
from five floors up because we cannot understand stairs.

we sit in plastic wrapping
for as long as we can, before
we rust or if we know the prefixed
hour our rebirth into teh silicon
heart of garbage that beats
the stinking truth of our existence here,
and we are the filth that regurgitates from
the eyes and ears and mouths
and virgin holes of lakes
and seas and gangraped forests.

we make war on digital fields
and our fat boys and little men
we soup on islands till
they burn like a thousand suns
and singe the brows of shiva,
and we feed and we feed, ti

we shrivel the teats of our third world nannies
and we split down the middle, replicating, till
we become the burning meteor and teeming ash
and we do unto the frogs
as it has been done unto the dinosaurs.

we twitter and poke and fall in love
with fair, tall and homely brides,
box-bred to be wives and we ascend to higher planes
because we are not two but one
but we do not know what she looks like,
or if he smells of old spice
or if it is a bot and has no skin at all.

We want children, so we have them delivered
and we've already picked out flavors
for they come in three! and then we parent them
on leashes and pat ourselves on the back
when they roll over and play dead-just right
and when we've fucked them up beyond repair,
we send them to the toy factory again for therapy.

we're fragile in our boxes,
packaged and shipped out
we are branded with numbers
that embed in the sphinx eye of our bar codes
our name and our color
and forever we are the proud
lined up citizens of the Great Bazaar,
who walk the line between insanity and extinction.

we are the poor in spirit
who create gods and epics
and in incense filled coliseums
we watch them fight
and we turn our joysticks
around and around and around
till everything is puke and nothing matters
and we start all over
because we love chasing our own tails
pondering what came first,
the god or the chicken.

we are generations of jacks
in our boxes
with springs wound tight and out
of the purple swirling potion
we hop along the spine of time
reaching for a Promethean age
so that Jack can stand up and touch the sky
and call it by its name,
so that he can be it.

but that Canaan is not for the
all smiling blue pill addicts
that we are,
who spawn and live and die,
in the puppet theater of the neo-human mind.


Juney Thomas's picture

Juney Thomas is a post graduate student at the University of Delhi. She has been dabbling with free verse since high school. Her main area of academic interest is post-colonial feminist theory. She can be reached here: juneythomas@gmail.com or at https://www.facebook.com/juney.thomas

Last updated September 18, 2011