Today is a new day on the island of phallic toys.
If you think you are not on it,
you are mistaken.
We are all here, laughing, crying,
so we take what we like best,
whether broken, broken,
dusty or used multiple times.
Of course, we are here,
our footprints are in the sand.
They speak more than we do.
Today is a new reality
in this bittersweet nightmare.
We can taste the dust when the wind blows a little more.
Cursed ground for all of us,
but damn, we like to tread on it.
Unwanted, unnecessary, imperfect,
this island of dust summons, drags, overwhelms,
and its only inhabitants
are our idols.
You know, the ones we dare not mention,
but there they are,
in scattered broken toys,
one to each, we must not be greedy.
But in this world of perfection, there is no room for error,
they are all beautiful,
phallicity is just a trait we pack them with,
we, grown children, children who are old
but they struggle to see
only when they play with them.
A secret we dare not even whisper
on an island of phallic toys.
Perfect people don’t belong here.
That’s why we’re all here.
Can’t you feel the sand between your toes,
the smell of plastic, the taste of metal, the sound of winding dolls?
There are lost souls in every sandbox.
These toys only eat dirt,
hoping one day lose an inch of their plastic,
that they will drop a screw or two,
that some part of the new toy will replace their broken one,
that it could purify in water full of toys generations before these.
This island is a perfect place to play
created just for us,
a real piece of perfection!
Some of us like only dolls with severed heads,
for thus they do not have to watch their idols mock them
so they can build them from other parts.
And some of us like wooden toys full of worms,
because this is how they know that even in faulty people, something can live.
Each of them becomes their version of Frankenstein’s monster,
but was it not also intended for perfection?
These toys are screaming for mercy.
Bring them happiness or melt them in the sun,
but they will still push the sand into their chest.
Each its own improvised plastic surgeon,
and in the end, we are all cursed to live eternity
trying to achieve what we couldn’t figure out,
someone else version of perfection.
But as long as we have our toys,
we can do everything.
Although we are just
parasites looking for a body to call home,
looking for happiness,
here on the island of phallic toys.