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Poetry Addict Feb 24
Sparrow lifts off
Empty air above welcomes her

Cut of wind
Dominates the skin
Exposed to air
The sky extending itself
In violent exaltation

Like a worn out theme.
The air attacks with chemicals
Swept up from the roadway
The road ebbing and sighing
Like a sea.

Bracken and rail
Train and singing cement
Rendezvous of wires and sky
This could be anywhere, cousin said,
With its bare dollhouse trees
Stretching into the distance.

“You don’t mind the roads.” he said, declarative
and a little too English.
“No. I don’t mind.”

a Second horizon of
Unadulterated black
Soaked in light.
Planes decorate the skies
And the snows can only colonize
The wilderness of parking lots.

Whine-click of tracks
Flickers of light yell “now”, dance
Away from my eye

Boom-clatter of trains
Moving walls of grey and grey
Gloom of gear parts

On this unforgiven
Earth,  without holy ground,
lost in city, occupation,
And fear of disease, of
the narrows of our blotted-out stars.
Inspired by my walk along the nearest road whose speed limit is 60 mph, though not a turnpike.
Peter B Sep 2018
He passed away in 1791,
aged thirty five.
He never saw a car,
never heard a noise of a machine.
His lungs
never breathed a smog.

He didn't wait
for the industrial revolution,
wild capitalism
and their awful consequences.

He left much earlier,
saving his senses
from the ugliness of the world,

from the unpleasant times,
which were soon to come.

He didn't die,
he only withdrew
from the end of the world.
Em MacKenzie Feb 2018
You call yourself a soldier of fortune,
you have no idea how right you are.
Even though you think you're fighting for something important,
you're marching for a rich man's new car.
Each bullet you shoot is a stock market spike,
and each victory is new land to claim.
To them you're a barcode or close to the like,
those you fight for don't bother to know your name.

History is written by the winners,
so don't trust the accounts you read.
The strings are all pulled by the sinners,
who wouldn't offer you a bandaid while you bleed.
You may give your life for the flag,
there's honour in that thought.
But they're using your morals to drag,
you and your platoon from spot to spot.
To shoot to **** and see what treasures they've got.

The industries fund each side of the war,
making life and death just a casual bet.
Ford provides the tanks for both just like before,
money spent with a return they're guaranteed to get.
Land's value is more than you know,
'cause the world ain't making anymore anytime soon.
So pick a spot on the globe and go,
and ship out the next loyal platoon.

History is written by the winners,
so always question what you hear.
Behind the scenes there's profiteers and grinners,
and you're seizing the power and resources they hold so dear.
You may give your life to protect,
every single man, woman and child,
but they're using you in retrospect,
and smuggling things in a corpse defiled.
Do they even glance at the bodies that they have piled?

The world's in trouble, there's no denying,
and each soldier has stayed true and loyal.
But at home the problem is double, you'd never know with their lying.
You can't fight your own men and thus you can't get the oil.

Just like every crime, you have to follow the paper trial,
it's no different this time, you're a victim of a government that seeks to fail.
They've made you into a collection agency,
one with guns to force a payment.
It's in plain sight so blatantly,
every person and country has to pay their rent.
For population control,
everyone has to pay the toll.

History is written by the winners,
so only one side gets to plead it's case.
Instead of helping the kids getting thinner,
evil gets a makeover and changes it's face.
I don't wish to shame anyone doing their duty,
I know you believe you're doing the right thing.
But what I'm saying, or eluding,
is they've turned war into business that's always profiting.
So before you put your uniform on,
ask who will benefit from this battle.
You might see the side you fight for is wrong,
and they're marching you to slaughter like cattle.

The real wars are at home,
but they want the heroes to roam,
No one to stop their own war crimes,
counting dollars, quarters, nickels and dimes.
They even call it a machine,
could it be more obvious what they mean?
Vexren4000 Aug 2017
A weapon forged,
In the industrial revolution,
Steel forged by the heat of Mars,
The god of war,
The sword of Damocles,
Crashing down upon the land,
Sundering the Earth,
Causing fault lines and canyons,
The giant swinging the great sword.
Cutting the land,
And destroying the machinations,
Of man.

Jackson Cavalier Jul 2017
Wander worried rambler roam.
Wander down the path of a riverside wood.
Step by step,
Shuffle to and fro.
A Forgotten industry remains.
Man made mines,
Dug out quarries,
Fencing, barbed wire, power lines, and pressure treated wooden poles.
Littering the landscape.
A blood letting favor, favored low.

A hydroelectric dam.

Murky and historical waters enter its mouth,
and then,
exit from its other side.
Constantly *******, and spitting, and churning turbine whine,
Spinning gear stuck,
clamped to the spine.
Luck may have it that these waters may never go dry.
Luck may have it that these currents stay 'live.
Merrily manic, it flows.
Strong and bold,
sparkle, sprung, sold!
Pushes and rolls,
gives and goes.
Electric mother glow.

Neon, argon, blazing blast,
to give city speckled lights a mast.
A grip to grasp, to squeeze, to cast,
shadows in the night.
Yellow, orange, red, and blue,
the shades of dreamers,
with their sorrows leaded, heavy,
holy truths.
Unspoken tomorrows, last goodbyes,
mouthed silently at last
in their heads a film score out of time.

The air is baked, the land is spry.
The sun is shattered through prism pines.
I carry myself upon the leaves, of dead footsteps, make believe.
Native footpaths of long ago
and red sandstone trail of men to behold.
Come to this place and let sights be known,
Come to this place and let sights be known,
histories of ours, histories bygone.
Hiking thoughts put into words. The Red Sandstone Trail is a trail that follows along the Raquette River. The trail-head is located in Colton, NY. The hike is one of historical nature. Many remnants of business and industry remain abandoned along the riverside. A picturesque picture painted by the clash of man made industry, and the awesomeness of nature.
Apachi Ram Fatal Jun 2017
interfere journey body sweaty mastermind dust
inhale shale bond reason oxidize crummy
read write swell\
ready curve encrypt slime minus shell heady set
flow sacrifice\
believe alter oceanic shelf killing part of Hell split Earth lent
mayhem vent\
outspent wipe well being clean provoke Cain uphold Able
mean mug\
dump cornmeal unicorn convulsing mend restitution advertently
spiel indent\
hand over to pilot retribution intend empty zeal rummage
Hasidic inside the writ spirit fly guide escape unravel ways of
lives out the side Pegasus soar glide abide Nein but fine rhyme
Clarity of KMFDM
Kevin Apr 2017
cauliflower balloons inflate from chemically altered exhaust.
upon deflation, they release clarification; they retain alterations.
cooked from breathing deep, bruised of industrial abuse,
cauliflower balloons are served to us with scents of rancid meat.

we are not unfamiliar to the machines of degradation.
appreciation is passed at the table alongside salt and gravy.
we are our makers and creators, not in need of names or forms.
we are not unfamiliar to ourselves but our ignorance blinds our lungs.

inflators of the inflated fill our plates to serve themselves,
forgetting somehow, who it is that will somehow serve their will.
deflators remain the servants, eventually becoming the served
remember to hold your breath because it is all you have.
this is about air quality. industries are allowed to produce an insane amount of airborne toxins that fall within government regulations, however, the effects on humanity and the general environment lay immeasurable by design so as to allow economic stability. i'd rather we have a healthy population and environment than a big house and healthy bank account.
Izzy Daltry Dec 2016
Call to the crow who slides between worlds,
Take me back on your blackest, acid wings.

Hallelujah the angel of psychotic fables,
Show me to my home when you hear me sing.

Eluding to Lucy, my Lucifer knew me,
I ask through the eigengrau, LUCI FER ME.

Help me discover the world undercover
Which ticks beneath my feet.

I whisper to trees and they answer with ease that
I seek a song that is not sung here.

I walk power stations, their humming temptation
A call that only I can hear.

I inquire of the pylons how I might sing their song,
The sore solemn workers work silently on.

I walk under bridges, their purpose religious,
The pipes and the wires,
The concrete and tyres,
Industrial spires,
I think
I think they hear my song.
Chris Neilson Aug 2016
My Dad was prone to melancholy
melancholy was his folly
folly that followed him around
around his deliveries of bread
bread that kept his customers fed
fed on carbohydrate to work
work manually in factories
factories that belched smoke
smoke that filled the air
air breathed with difficulty
difficulty by people living their lives
lives lived with melancholy
melancholy also suffered by my Dad
my childhood was lived with a heavy industrial backdrop of noise and air pollution. A lingering melancholy also filled the air
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