Helicopter Crash Test Dummies

During the day they line up in straight, neat, shinny rows, sleepless wonders of our future. Their heads filled with details enough from the night before while copters caught their evening stupor. They pretend to memorize a multitude of facts forever, but most likely these tidbits are easily accessed in the least powerful search engines, a useless endeavor.

Pressure, pressure, boil, boil, poor marks a spot soiled

The best of the adolescent years swooshing too quickly by paper, pen, and touch screens nigh. With a rising sun, expert hands flit across black and ivory keys, such sad sighs. Prior to half open eyes falling asleep upon the books, sports will be played with all statistics displayed, and the right friendships made because under achievers are nothing but crooks.

Pressure, Pressure, boil, boil, for only perfection is royal

Dissatisfaction booms through the air in a high-pitched and warping weeeen, never ending scream-filled reminders of unfinished and never ceasing learning of things. This needs to be done before that, and ten more things before the next breath, and then, did you see so n’ so’s scores? My doppelganger in a dreaded competition to our deaths.

Pressure, pressure, boil, boil, to be faultless is loyal

Fwoop, fwoop, slice and dice heads fly away with a clean sweep of the verbal knife. “Did you get it all done today?” “You need time to yourself?" Sorry you have no life. Their blades, their every open gesture recoils at selfish askings, such degradation. They collapse upon themselves with knowing grimace, fraught with consternation.

Pressure, pressure, boil, boil, watch ‘em sit and toil.

Wobbling rotor tips flap uncontrollable approaching the speed of sound, the end of the year is near, but it’s been months since the perfect ones have touched the ground. The taste of summer is almost upon their lips, but not before the blade slap reaches a fevered quaking pitch, compliance is the creed of perfection off to the doc to get a script.

Pressure, pressure, boil, boil, red undercurrent a constant roil

Vibrations compressing the sticky sweat filled viperous air around their heads, as they excrete their essence onto the paper another form of letting out, cutting red. Purely ecstatic sound waves pour forth from the copters, a sing song sorrow, for the reality of what comes next, might not be what is wanted for tomorrow.

Pressure, pressure, boil, boil, ill kept products spoil

There has been a foolproof pattern deftly designed and executed. The copters swear it will stave off failure, although there is a generation yet disputed. The tiger rescues the cub before the horror of a scraped knee is realized, but the world cares not when a grownup cries.

C.S. Mack Author