Platform

We are trying on our disguises
hips slung arms slack forward
backs to the clear glass glow
of a life we do not want
and fail to fit to. We have reversed,
stacked our fears/triumphs/petty defeats
on our shoulders to leave ourselves
bow-backed and open, reduced
to the thick thirst of an animal’s 
lust, pared to bodies dressed 
in insubstantial armour, glazed 
in a sick green sheen of apathy, we
are no longer me but it, limp-hipped
accepting, propped on the cusp
of a world that still will not let us in
we hover, ready to fall, to drop to the edge
of a cold tile floor, the roar of a stink-train’s 
anger bringing the takers, the pointers 
the blind-eyed, the fearful, to catch
the cusp of our final downfall
to eat our erasure; the predators
feed on passivity. We will not
survive this coming rush but 
our blood will pattern the walls 
for those who come after to worship.