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A M Ryder Sep 29
We flew aloft
On mechanical wings
And suddenly the heavens
Were within reach
To those who could
Build the machines
To take them there
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.

solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.

but your sister…

luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.

finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Stark Nov 2018
Wind it up
So it beats
At a rhythmic pace

Skim your finger over it
Cherishing it
And its fragility

Shatter it
To let the emotions flow outward
As you have broken my heart
alex May 2018
Bursting tanks of propane, all was in vain
I’m gonna blow up, throw up, blow dust
Ligaments rust, no trust, nonplus
A fraud and I ask god
Please, come back to me, attack me
These parts creak, rip them off
Rubber plate skin on my face, tear it off
Look into my glazed glass eyes and see
Through my metal skeleton beneath
Through the chattering of my teeth
How you ravished and destroyed me
i've been tossed aside by the one who meant to me the most
Himself a machine,
Like a cool train
Like a moving rollercoaster
Like a ravaging mechanical animal

Iron oil and rust,
Pulsating boiling blood
Bursting brilliantly.
To my grandfather
Eliza Fairchild Jul 2016
A feeling as inevitable as the return of the clouds,
or the ebb and flow of the tide, rolls over me.
Brought in by the smell of ozone just before the first drops of rain fall;
their quiet sound shattering the peace of the soil microcosm,
mirroring the dissonance within my own being.

As I sit on the porch of a dilapidated house I can feeling my gears turn,
mismatched cogs grinding up thoughts and emotions,
Their essence fueling the furnace bellow,
an archaic mechanism that was built to burn.

Somewhere along the line it was caused by a mistake in the design,
one purely chemical and utterly inevitable.
Every engineer flummoxed by the nonsensical complexity,
a system without rhyme or rhythm,
held together by some chance of fate.

Winter is the only relief for the endless heat generated within,
gradually cooling parts to the point where one can fiddle within,
each moving part worn thin, lasting just long enough...
Temporary fixes suffice, while on this endless search for a true solution,
a pair of kind thoughtful hands tempered enough to stand the heat,
one perspicacious enough to rearrange the parts within,
a new design that will cease the burning.

The essence of my being has long since been locked deep within,
my body is both the cage an a coffin I some day hope to escape.
It's an inevitable struggle I must face each day,
looking for someone who will find me and take me by the hand,
pulling my soul up out of the depths of it's mechanical prison.
This is my first attempt at writing a longer poem. I don't think the way my mind works is apt for this type of form, it's easy to translate the images in my mind into something more concise but this feels like trying to catch wisps in my open hands. I do hope you made it to the end at the very least and it evoked some image within you, that is my only wish.
Crystal June Jun 2016
And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.

The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.

He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.

Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.

Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.

Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.

They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)

Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.

It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.

Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
The suburbs get to me sometimes (a.k.a. all the time).
Brother Jimmy Jun 2016
I am a machine
How 'bout that
I ought to run lean
But I am not clean

Ran over a cat
Made quite an impression
My passenger spat:
"That feline is flat"

Intake, compression
Ignition, exhaust
Here's my confession
(Oh what an obsession)

And what is the cost
For sweet release?
For toxins tossed?
Redeem what is lost

I ****, squeeze,
Bang, blow...
Forget to say please,
Run hot with ease

My fluids are low
I'm 'bout to run dry
A gasket might go
And oil won't flow

Oh why even try
This machine is obscene
My insides will fry
And soon I will die
Just playing with rhyme scheme

"**** squeeze bang blow" is how you remember the four stages of an automobile engine... Intake (****), Compression (squeeze), Ignition (bang), Exhaust (blow).  I always loved that.  The fact that it sounds **** really helps you remember.  :)
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