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Ylzm May 2019
Can the *** ask the potter
why was it made a ***,
and not a bowl or pitcher,
or even a sword?
Can Excel appeal to Gates
that it wants to be Edge?
Or Huawei to God of Money
to appease the Yellow Devil?
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Wisely invested in mammon, secure,
I repose in my splendor, moronic—
bejeweled with scarabs, jackals, and cats.
My dividends total pharaonic.
Egypt was a scheme—
very long-endurance scheme. . .
but yes, still a scheme.
Lyvana Nyx Aug 2017
Mammon murdered me
Right around 1:25 am
When he pulld out
And i pulled him back in
Filled me
Then pushed him away
And went to sleep
While he left
I don't know, it just came to me.
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
O Babylon! Your God is a sport-utility vehicle, a VCR, and a two-car garage!
You delight in images of killing and artificially-large-breasted women!
Your arteries are clogged with Big Macs and a thousand pieces of Kentucky-Fried Chicken!
Your God is Technology.  Your God is Progress.

Your skyscrapers rise to the heavens!  Your astronauts fly to the moon!
You clone sheep! alter genes! make a mountain into a parking lot!
Your fields flower!  Your grain-bins groan under the weight of the ripe corn!
But the land of your soul is a desolation.

O God of Henry Ford, the Wright Brothers, and Bill Gates,...
All the nations adore Thee!
(Pretty soon they'll be ordering Papa John pizza by cell phone in New Guinea....)
Your God is Mammon.

After the movies, after the Quarter-pounders-with-cheese, super-size fries, and a large Coke,
after the evening news, the Hostess cupcakes, golf, beers, and swimming 20 laps,
the hunger will be the same as the day you first felt it, O Babylon!
the thirst of the soul, O Babylon!
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( )
ConnectHook Sep 2015
$ $ $

Because I hate money
as money hates me,
I will out-live my debt
and be buried for free.

My gravest desire:
die poor, with no coffin,
that Death may unharden
what Life could not soften.

Because money hates me
I sometimes hate God,
(though I never served Mammon)
so SHOVEL, you clod,

while I speak from the grave;
a cadaver with class:
come strew a few flowers
and cover my ***.

(Or cover my assets
so my corpse doesn’t lie
like a liability.)

Because money hates me
I’ll leave it to you
to savor my point of
funereal view.
God help me.


— The End —