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Big bucks being made/weapons sales contracts, slush fund/death big business
train with
crushed stone rumbles:

power
   plant chimney
      warns
         of flight
                                      too far
complicated
   i’m hooked
     with thoughts
Julia Apr 2020
Glorious amounts of melted chocolate
swirling swirling swirling

Globular deposits onto sliding sheets
shining shining shining

Guttural phonetics of the gooey frenzy
smacking smacking smacking

Let loose a symphony
Let fall the curtain
Intake the stimuli
Real is uncertain

Your mind is a toy
Inside folded parchment paper
That once it's unwrapped
You can never reglue
2016
Poetry Addict Feb 2019
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.
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?
Nicx Dec 2017
The city of fog
Just outside a city of smog
I don't want to be here
Not after an afternoon in the sun
The cool breeze and
Clean air from big trees
I could finally breathe again
No pressure
No anxiety
No haunting memories
Just myself and the universe
Running across the snow covered rocks
I could easily slip at any moment
But I felt no fear
I felt nothing but free
Yet here I am again
Trapped in an industrial city
Surrounded by death and capitalism
Sure there's some parks
Some controlled spaces of nature
But it's not the same
It's maintained and constructed intentionally
It is not free
It cannot thrive and grow without scrutiny
Take me back to the hills and trees
The rock formations unfazed by human contact
You can feel the energy within it
Even the broken trees lining the ground have life
But not here
It's all dead
Nothing is natural
We think it's beautiful because it's shaped that way
But real nature is beautiful
Simply because it exists as it is
It embodies it's own existence
And nothing compares to that
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.

©BAS
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.
Cold.
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.
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