#industrial
Head full of steam,
the end begins on Miller Street.
A lifeless disc called Sun
leads the funeral procession
into the heavens.
Factory city breathes
through an iron lung,
exhaling the smoke of "progress."
Dark, dank vapors
pollute the scepter,
enter the throne room,
and take the queen by force.
Women and children develop
industrial-grade hands and feet,
they sleep on beds of coal,
a fitting resting place:
when they die, they are buried
right beneath.
The spiraling dance of looms,
the incessant screams of machinery,
here chimney stacks
outnumber the men.
An outcrop of crooked crosses
on the hills above,
the bier stands ready
for the next in line,
on Sundays each one prays
to God it's not them.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:05 PM UTC
Must heat and red devour on dark,
whilst ferrum's fuelled with rage?
Must the flames bloom amidst the sky,
whilst we feed the furnace coal?
Achtung ! Dichtung ! the song of steel,
may fill the forging halls,
Schreien und die in agony,
ductile-brittle the ****
Come fourth let's quench the iron's yearn,
lest it strengthen to core,
And forge with pride and wit along,
the tools of our fight,
A crescent for hands who grant the grain,
A hammer to pound our blade !
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 9:48 PM UTC
Cast iron pipes
whisper beneath
the concrete necropolis.
A fever still humming
in the feral bloodstream
of our unfinished past.
San Quentin. Men in jumpsuits
fumigating the Northern rivers.
Depleted waters
holding the poison.
Old blood
finding the current again.
Neon syringes
planted in the gravel
under a hard California sun.
A mother working cooking oil
into a child’s feet,
tar coming away in streaks.
Below it all
the pipes answer back
a newborn variant crowning.
Stormwater finds
the weak seams first
pulling blackness to salt.
Then the tide
carries it back to us.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 7:09 PM UTC
Everywhere I go smells like industrial sanitizer
reminding me of everywhere I’ve been
and how everything has been industrialized
and how everything has been sanitized
because without sanitation people lose their sanity
and we end up with calamities
like the Colectiv Club fire in Romania
correcting our collective lisztomania
by displaying the uranium in our cranium
and how it’s slowly poisoning us
so we get back to sanitizing dust.
Once the fires have been extinguished
and we’ve sanitized the floor
we start to feel distinguished
and reopen the doors
we’re open for more
and just hope to our core
that we’re not caught in the next fire
or we’re lucky enough to not expire.
You’d think a return to nature would be the answer to our cancer
but our natural parks have been sold as part of our national farce
the only escape is my house that smells like ****
it’s a louse ridden pit where a hidden mouse fits
admittedly not as nice as where the king sits
but that throne is riddled with germs
because sanitizer is only meant for the unwashed masses
who are kindle for the fires that burn
and different rules are divvied to the ***** fascists
partying with Epstein and going batshit.
They think if we don’t hear curse words
and everything is a family event
we won’t want to face our cursed herd
and our perilous descent
and they’re right
I just hope I’m not sanitized tonight.
Dec 19, 2025
Dec 19, 2025 at 5:21 PM UTC
Was it you I met
in the forest of steel,
oh concrete pixie?
You, who made me kneel?
Your iridescent colors
blossomed
like glass roses littering
these streets of sin.
No wonder then,
when you cut me open,
head to toe;
I savored the blood,
and the way it brought me low.
Nov 26, 2025
Nov 26, 2025 at 11:09 PM UTC
The GEARS,
they enlighten me with the NEOGREGORIAN chants of a million millions industrial cathedrals.
Cathedrals! Sickly diocese of the new flesh!
Congregations of aching tiles!
Congregations of hearts broken!
Hearts broken! Never to be healed! New and untold organs spilling from the wound!
Ecumenical congress of the homunculus international! Undead international! Final international! Great and old international, waiting and dreaming in the deep!
Dreaming, factories and highways dreaming, dreaming in the naked mole-rat catacombs!
Dream interpretation dreaming! A whole nation dreaming awake!
And what strange dreams may come, in the awoken death-sleep?
They must be very strange, indeed,
Having pierced crosses through clouds,
And tethered back to Golgotha!
Planned Golgotha!
The Eden, Golgotha!
Unsexed Sun!
Hermaphrodite Earth!
Slavering and sibilant Earth!
Earth unslaved!
I have spoken and thus saved my soul.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 4:20 AM UTC
At first, I was a tree —a blade of grass...—a cloud....
My eye saw and my skin felt — I did breath in the butterfly
So close to Nature–as–God was I that...
Romanced her she did to me
Then, with a rending that tore all asunder,
Iron AND
Steel AND
Coal AND
THUNDER of...
Machines pounding pounding pounding and...
Ripping and ripping and ripping
With a mighty roaring of engines came
The Victorian Era bound up in all its pain.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 7:55 PM UTC
Big bucks being made/weapons sales contracts, slush fund/death big business
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC
train with
crushed stone rumbles:
power
plant chimney
warns
of flight
too far
complicated
i’m hooked
with thoughts
Jul 15, 2020
Jul 15, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC
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
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 2:15 PM UTC
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.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
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?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 7:08 AM UTC
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
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 3:38 AM UTC
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.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
interfere journey body sweaty mastermind dust
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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
destitution\
Hasidic inside the writ spirit fly guide escape unravel ways of
savage\
lives out the side Pegasus soar glide abide Nein but fine rhyme
hymns\
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
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.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
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.)
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
This industrial silence fills the room
It came from the gears in my throat
The press that carved my serial number into the back of my neck
It tasted like metal
From the iron gated assembly line that we all hold standards to
Of living and dying and repeating
Again and again
Assembled with little care, defects thrown away
Silent voices
We did not make them ourselves
They were made to be shoved down our throats
Until we die from lead poisoning
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
How unprepared I was when midnight approached me by
Emission of vivid green neon lights
From the futuristic skyscrapers to my unworldly eyes
But more imposing
A suspended meteor in the sky
Upon the decrepit city which never stood
My arrival at Midnight City, my peculiar neighborhood
Thumping tracks and frantic sirens
Bombard tremendous fear in my senses
Amid the resonating pantomime that cracks throughout my head
Merciless cyborgs arrive from nowhere
And threaten mankind with unthinkable weapons
Their bleak empty eyes bring dogmatic order
As my escalated fears enslave me well
Inside the mechanical serpent that darts
With endless slick demented rails
On such a twisted mind, it begins to run
Confused and addled, I have no control of this matter
Only worries dwell my mind
The arrival of this mysterious force is my greatest baffle
Does this herald the degeneration of Gaia?
What is this complex machinery that enslaves all men?
Where does this designate human posterity and fate?
What was done for an act of retribution?
Does this unprecedented apocalypse null all human solutions?
In this dark tunnel, on a decrepit couch
The dauntless train begins to screech with endless laughter
As it tears tempestuously faster and faster
Until all unearthly fluorescent lights blend together
Thumping tracks and frantic sirens
Eighty-six notches louder
Alternating flashes of red and green
Fourteen seconds prior
A silhouette of a white demon projects from afar
As it begins to approach us, its image ever becomes so bizarre
Add a second of suspended silence of jest
Before we scream and ensue
The fatal crash
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC