Saturday night draft

A generation blown away by RPGs,
uploaded into a shoot-‘em-up
future of ogres and demons,
fragging motherboard-cyborgs,
in plasma-lit dwellings,
Eyes ?
when their all-night gigabyte
locked-in lock-ups,
stopped them to
compiling molding pizza on infected clothes a carpet of fast food wrappers,
who exchanged their paychecks
for electronic currency between sixteen, twenty-six and thirty-six
hour sessions with the possesive bitch-box,
who bit the apple of codependant roller coasters
and passed words to the ones they wanted to love,
and did as they pleased
themselves with a middle-aged
mailman,
who collected socks damp with with the musty smell of day-old self love
who danced around the ritual
circle of addiction in the same four walls, for the fourth grey day,
maggots squirming
in a pile near an unused bed.
who gained weight and lost time, flies
buzzing around their heads--picking though the trash, that became their lives,