"automatons" poems
We are the ***** purveyors of other peoples lives
renouncing the living breathing beating heart
in exchange for another photo of craft ale
and home-cooked food with a foot note description
as if it would fill our bellies and sate our hunger.
We are the dark wave tsunami of digital information
waxing lyrical about that holiday in Spanish sunshine
and a rant about car parking attendants and traffic jams
rather than the outstretched palm to jaw caress of realness
instead we line up perspectives of another bottle of wine.
We are the breeders of the optic L'enfant terrible
gorging on the memories of other worlds in 140 characters
snap shots of the life we could have had outside of the screens
the spineless automatons of digitized free love
the could've been, would've been lumbering electronic has-been.
We are the tumultuous storm rising fighting against the unknown power
we unite to save bees and coral reefs
and explore the concepts of actually doing something humanitarian
all we need do is sign the petition before the 11th hour
and be one of the thousand voices saying:
NO. We won't take this any more!
We are the saviours of our time and the rescue merchants of lost dogs
imbibed by Scrabble and Candy Crush weaving the elusive like a band aid
the tapestry of memes and images of cute kitteh's in boxes
chasing the shadows of reality on a stick for kicks
and all the while the moon is out there somewhere shinning her light
glorious silver light etching through the hash tag of cloud formations.
We are no longer what we thought we were. We are each other.
A haemoglobin gelatinous mass of misinformation and forgotten dreams
You are not alone. Even if you wanted to be,
my friend, my sister, my lover, my brother
quoting movies as if it were an inner wisdom speaking in tongues.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,
Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.’
But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
1.7k
concentration camp of my emotions
every statement i make gives the feeling of fake. its been less then a day and already i want to say, **** this is tough I’ve almost had enough. i have to lock down my thoughts like there are spotlights searching for any escaping expressions. I’ve put limitations on my own emotions all I’m allowed to show is pity for my self, hell id rather off my self. the situation isn’t a cold war the glass cover over the launch button is shut, crisis averted we can all go back to being automatons emotionless, cold like stone statues buried under the field. i can’t even share what is going on in my head without a censor bar blocking because i feel like its too shocking and it would be mocking the proposal i composed. I’m allowing myself to believe in a false sense breathing in false cents. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable to talk to someone who, when we walk made me feel….. well a lot. this situation is unbearable but i don’t know how to coupe without my fix. my mom said i need new kicks because theres holes in it but my heart is fit for a good stitch but nobody has a sewing kit. why do i continue to push when the door says pull i guess I’m just not on the ball when i fall. i don’t check the ground first. i didn’t look to see if there were matts to brace my impact, no i just fell and said “oh well” i sprained my leg but broke my heart. I’m in a camp where my emotion is lined against a wall and publicly shot on the spot, red lead hits the spot as emotions drop motionless its pure hopelessness and god **** do i miss it already. the word freedom has no meaning, theres no formal greeting in prison just keep your head down and hope for the best walking in a crowd wearing similar striped attire all tiered looking somehow wired to string strung and hung down from the set. the puppet masters pet. i don’t know where this all will go but i know……….. i don’t know but I’ve lost hope years ago.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Onward and onward they march
These automatons of flesh and bone
Seeking whom they may devour
Upon this ungodly hour
Onward and onward they march
This army of rakshasa
United not by flag or ideals
But by the monster within
Onward and onward they march
This new dominant species
Humanity's bones break beneath
The decaying feet of the ******
Onward and onward they march
These bearers of immortality
Time, thier greatest ally
Ignorance, their greatest enemy
Onward and onward they march
These ignorant beasts of burden
Infect and feed, infect and feed
Programmed into their minds
Onward and onward they march
Into the great unknown
Knowing not what they do
Knowing not where they go
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
The floor is cracked and faded,
The map is nearly gone.
The stained glass roof has shattered
Now, fifty years gone down.
The fountains at the Unisphere,
spray glowing in the dark.
Remembering the Flushing fair
in Flushing meadow park.
In the Vatican Pavilion
The Pieta was on display.
In the Carousel of Progress
The automatons sang and played.
I had a plastic brontosaur
From Sinclair, I recall.
Puppets used to dance and sing
“It’s a small world after all.”
The displays and the pavilions
Now are, mostly, gone.
Just the Stainless Unisphere
recalls that hopeful dawn.
We walked Tomorrow’s though fares
Whose horrors weren’t shown.
Then I was but a little child-
Now fifty years gone down.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
These are the end times.
Judgment is coming
For our iniquities and apathy
For the ****** of the unborn
For worshiping money
For voting Democrat
For buying non-biodegradable products.
Or so they say.
I don't enjoy discussing
Or even hearing
About eschatology
When and how and why the world will end
Which is what seems to pervade the air at home
Every time the conversation suffers an unfortunate lull.
Some cathartic culmination
Of a Deity's wrath
No doubt for all the
*** drugs, and rock & roll
Humanity indulges in
On a daily basis.
Hearing about the end --
Demons born to women
Automatons wearing human skins
Talking animals
Seems so redundant.
The signs had been here all along.
We've been living with them for ages now.
What if
Instead of a violent, sudden cataclysm,
The end comes
As an implosion
Drawn out over billions of years?
What if the second law of thermodynamics
Is the prophesy
Doomsday prophets overlooked?
There are no aliens coming
To **** and subjugate this planet:
We're already here.
This is the end
We've been simmering in it
Fighting and spitting and cursing
In puddles of our filth and hate
The end has been unfolding
For the past few millennia
As humanity continues to multiply
Like rats beneath New York.
And here we are
Making plans
Getting married
Hoarding money
Getting **** drunk
Too busy preventing
The little apocalypses
Of our petty lives.
We're planting gardens
In the shadow of a warhead.
We all saw it coming
We were just too busy to care.
My world's already ending
In bits and pieces anyway
At random intervals
Every time I let someone in
And she inevitably leaves
Taking a piece of me with her
My sun dies in agonizing degrees
Even a quiet infatuation
Eats away at me
Crumb by crumb.
All those theories about the end
Forget them.
I'm living my own apocalypse
And surrounded by human-sized
People-shaped versions
Of the Four Horsemen
So shut up already.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Engage
Ignite
the blood needs stirring
the legs have fallen dumb
stupor of monotony
has nestled into hips
wake these automatons
shake the dust from their harps
break beds and shred pillows
it’s possible that the very sight of feathers
might spark a memory of flight
these lifeless were not stillborn
these were once vivid
there is an epic in each of their wrinkles
each one of their tongues
once rang like bell towers
from hilltop carnal cathedrals
there are mountains they have stood on
that you have yet to reach
be careful not to judge a valley
without first considering
why it’s not called a plateau
these are atoms waiting to be split
waiting to rupture
to quake
to rip through the popular tapestry
waiting for their chance to be contagious
be contagious
these are already on death row
unaware of their slumber
ritual has rocked them gentle and slow
and habit is a cozy cradle
Engage
Ignite
spark passion in dried up timbers
gathered like kindling in foxholes
these have been lovers
for a forgotten number of years
these once meant ‘I do’
there is a sedative nostalgia
glazing their smiles
these are not now, but then
break hourglasses
and storm the new beach
raise flags in the motherland
bearing family crests
speak warpaint
sing fire
compose your battle cry
from their fragmented vitality
arouse in these
a memory of their first love
awaken the giants
that have fallen asleep
pull the plug
let them die or breathe
but let us see
who is and who isn’t
a sepulcher
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
I dreamt last night
that I had
to sew a blanket
with a giant seam
straight down the middle.
The fabric was patterned
with the galaxies
swirling and whirling and shooting by;
changing
every second.
My friends
were all around
to help me
but lifeless -
automatons sewing
blanket after perfect blanket
all the while
watching me
with unseeing eyes.
And as I sewed
one by one
they disappeared
until I was alone
with my starry blanket
and it’s giant seam.
I looked at it
to admire my work,
but could not stand the silence
or the
emptiness.
When before my eyes
the seam was torn apart
but a shooting star
and into that hole in the galaxy
was where i walked
in search of something new.
I walked into the seam
of my giant blanket
and what I found;
what I found was magical
beautiful
the most breath-taking vision
of perfect
tragic
loveliness -
but I only know
because when I awoke
I was crying
and could not remember.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
paranoid automatons
surveying themselves
within
de-civilizing panopticons;
a missing guard
in a rich light tower
watching you
watch yourself
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
.
In overcrowd of family
I was orphan. No legacy
Of leftover dream, in shut
Into indifference and colds
Unfounded, of cacophonies,
Egg of unreal yolks cracked,
Where even a heart is mute
Without ear, without touch,
When a soul is overlooked,
Like a shadow in high sun,
With parents, who seethe,
Breaking their own bonds,
In a room free of warmth,
Unbeknownst, harmony,
Let loose from civilities,
Open to rot and curses,
Hollow as any prideful
Automatons bent out
Selfless unknowings
True destructions,
Negating orphan.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
Your parents are....
The Most Awesome
people you have ever
actually ever known
right now
In your world
on the Earth
as we know it -
Parents hung on,
made do,
but hung on
Kept up hope,
The living
The one-time
They out lived
1000s of years of evolution,
war
and
resolution
The lineage
of
The Earth
if they're still going;
Why aren't you?
Breed or be Bred
Automatons
Animations
the forgotten spark
You are
what
You are
Just...
don't forget
where you came from
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Drilled and enforced
You're nothing but
Dependent and controlled
And you like being told
Humanity uncloaked
Firefights stoked
Denial is justice
Denial of malice
You're the children
of hammered satire
Automatons on fire
Automatons and liars
You run around the world
But you're not asunder
You're the atlas too
The weight is on your shoulder
Prententious thoughts
Remembrance is fraught
Denial is justice
Denial of malice
You're the children
of limbless desire
Automatons on fire
Automatons and liars
And thats all you are
All flesh and bone
Only an automaton
Only an automaton
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
We walk around in solitude,
And stand by ourselves.
Our eyes see each other:
*Flesh, and flesh alone is what we see,
It's what we seek.*
We want the outer shell.
The soul is just an addition on the inside;
A thing hidden from the world,
That's not to be considered:
Just ignored and suppressed.
We're dominated in our minds,
We're slaves of the likes and the trends,
We want to be who they see us as,
But they, but we, but everybody can only see the flesh;
And that is what we seek.
We won't believe in what can't be seen.
We've grown to forsake the lurking monsters,
They were banished by rationality;
And when our conscience raises it's head,
It's just ignored and oppressed.
We've turned into Automatons;
Mannequins, who can style themselves.
The soul, hidden inside,
Is something that can't be seen,
And so, *it isn't considered, isn't wanted;*
Only flesh is what we seek.
While our soul shrivels up, decayed and decrypt,
Our flesh, we keep intact.
We swallow the infernal ache,
And plaster the cracks on our smiling face--
And the cries of our soul, we keep repressed.
***For, we care for what they see.
They can only see the flesh,
And flesh is what they seek.***
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
You know what most amazes me?
is not that so many need therapy,
but that so many people don’t!
I mean, it seems my life to me
is a daily test of my ability,
to hold on to my sanity,
to keep a grip on what’s real,
and what’s important,
to struggle for what’s right,
while so many of those around me,
seem bent on self-destruction,
it’s a tragedy beyond conception!
Which is why I need
time on my own,
in the mountains all alone,
no human face to haunt me,
but the faces in my mind.
Time to catch my breath,
a vacation from the motion
of all the mental commotion
the people moving
through the streets
‘till they seem to all stand still.
Now don’t get me wrong!
Life is the most beautiful thing there is,
but what is life, after all?
We must define it,
or forever search the darkness.
We must succeed,
or take the blame for the fall.
Is a rock alive?
Of course not!
but then again
the most modest grain of sand
will surely out-live you!
Is a virus alive?
or a bug, or grass or a squirrel?
These things “live”,
but without self-conception,
are nothing more
than nature’s automatons
reproducing, pain avoiding, pleasure seeking machines.
How can they be “alive”?
After all, what is life, without a knowledge of life?
to be alive, one must know one is alive,
and must also know
that life is no guarantee,
not even of life itself,
for we all must die.
The road we’re on will surely end,
life’s single guarantee,
is that death is our destiny!
Life is the journey!
It seems to me
we must seek to be
more than just automatons.
To think, before we act,
to choose temporary pain
over spirit killing fear,
to choose life over death,
and choose death
over a life not lived!
We must choose to help each other
for we shall surely need help ourselves,
I want to live in a world of love and understanding,
and the strength of forgiveness
toward those who trespass against me,
in hope that my trespasses
shall be forgiven in kind.
For what are we?
we are social creatures,
driven by our nature
toward contact with one another
for better or worse!
Companionship,
unlike air, food, water,
is not what makes life possible,
it’s what makes life worth living!
Which is why
I come down from my mountain,
to face the throngs,
and fight the crowds in their misery,
and repress the insanity,
if just for today,
to laugh and cry with my friends…
Dan Bryce
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
A flood of teen hormones and sappy drivel YAY
Hooray for no talent !
Religious sycophants are like flies on ****
Sad nasty little things with no wit .
Muslims and Jews are the worst
non stop psychosis self afflicted curse.
Flapping and buzzing and jockeying for **** ******* position.
All the while lusting for and denying the inquisition.
They have always been the walking dead among us
brainless shambling automatons making such a fuss.
Hungry for brains for they find none in their mosques or synagogues.
Rooting ceaselessly and wallowing in their stupid **** lies
like wild feral ethnocentric hogs.
Barking and yapping and threatening
fighting and ******* like Catholics
like dogs.
And like flies on **** every time you take a break from shooing them away you find more have gathered raving.
Hollow lies and promises of here after.
Truly nothing worth listening to yet so , so much to say.
Away , Away Away.
Lest you fools and unquestioning idiots think you are welcome and try to make a home or find a place to stay.
Go preach please to the semi trucks in the middle of the interstate
they need salvation now and truly cannot wait.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 1:23 AM UTC
The lines are sharp and they lacerate
My brain is dull and can’t actuate
Pop the amphetamine and wait for the kick
To make me less useless, to make me less sick
Society pukes itself seeking the grade
And gives up the children, a foolish trade
Mechanical education will only build robots
Those heartless automatons, terminator and whatnot
Smash the machine, rip out the circuit
Infuriated by the pressure to be perfect
Burn the tests, incinerate the scale
Eliminate the concept of pass or fail
Make everything new.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
A withered old sage had once retold,
How humans used ears and eyes,
Deranged and foolish everyone calls him,
Believe not the fabricated myths and lies.
Radiant was his face when he described thrill and yearning,
The word love made him look enchanted and serene,
As he wistfully told of things foreign and unknown,
To deaf ears and dull eyes turned to screens.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
and the songs fade but a saintly poet or two
wanders streets and alley looking for who ever is here
here where the lovers met the gods and the maidens
are free and lovely and good
.......
i remember seeing you there!
........
the hours are corrupt and the leaders we worship are corrupting
evil greed-encrusted alien scoundrels as we all know!
....
and so?
......
and so!!!!!!!!
well!!
we are the song incarnate!
we are the utter epitome of pure god love and light!
we are the source of the only power still truly alive!
we are NOT
the politically correct automatons that they'd have us be!
the ******* robotic ditto-headed monstrosities of vote giving
impotency called "patriotic christian americana"
NO
we are simply "what you hear
when we choose to speak"
we are simply "what we do in accordance
with what we need"
WE ARE MEN AND WOMEN
CHILDREN ANIMALS FLOWERS TREES
SKIES AND WIND AND SEAS
we are what is known
we are always together
this we realize
eventually
Aug 18, 2011
Aug 18, 2011 at 4:32 PM UTC
Went to bed and dreamed of getting my *** kicked by the Queen of Earthquakes.
Six hours later and I'm waking up with a headache.
Hid from the sun beneath sweaty sheets.
The only thing that gets cold here is the space in our chest.
Road the bus with a load of automatons withered with rust.
Scanning the seats with dead-beat eyes.
Hey, would you mind if we traded places?
I like the window seat best.
Paperclip trebuchets wage war in front of ignored spreadsheets.
Just another day in paradise,
but now I think I feel a stirring between my legs.
Here we sit waiting on a disaster to speed up our slow demise.
But all that aside, the thing is that when I stare into her eyes I can feel my feet sliding -
Carrying me toward the tittles in the middle with a gliding force that can't be avoided.
i think i might like her a little.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Man rose from the fertile crescent,
forging tools from the earth,
lumber, ore and bone,
and from the ashes rose great walls of stone.
The prisca theologica,
in the hands of the hermit,
a mirror shattered,
shards embedded in the hearts of men,
an open wound with no remedy,
wild animals now wearing clothes,
a guise hiding a loss of innocence.
Man as god,
and god as man,
built edifices to his own greatness,
great pillars to heaven,
massive gates only to admit the few,
whose hearts fester in caustic dogma.
The first rule from a throne,
the last wither nameless and unknown,
fearful of sin borne of station,
handed from father to son,
automatons and lifeless husks,
thirsty for the fountain of life,
stumbling towards the unknown god.
Coins lain on altar,
to a god with no name,
hedging a bet against probability,
the author of the triangle permits,
meat given to idols and then to gluttony,
within great white pillars of earth,
monolithic structures of stone,
in hopes of pax deorum.
Superstition,
nothing more,
The nameless god doesn't dwell in temples made by hand,
his throne founded in heaven,
he dwells in hearts wounded in antiquity,
in the worn hands of the laborer,
in the mind of the naturalist,
in the heart of the mother.
There is more of deity in the eyes of a child,
than in any temple,
and still we build,
heads bowed in reverence to inanimate atomic structure.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
When she sings
Celestials dance
Her voice summons sprites
Automatons ignited by a single utterance
Writhing and shimmering
Even in the shadows
The fae emerge from beneath oak leaves
Coaxed out of hiding
By what was taken
For a druidess' song
When she sings
I weep
At what could have been
At what is
She tosses a glance down at me
And juxtaposes elation with despair
My skin revolts
In an eruption of goosebumps
Not even whiskey can suppress
Each melody
Revealing
Unspoken depths
Nourishing her unassailable spirit
Flawless in her imperfection
Tempered in her brokenness
Her breath fills my soul
With effervescent aether
All my meticulous machinations
My impenetrable nonchalance
Those incorrigible wisecracks
The implacable facade
Methodically pieced together over time
Shattered
Undone by the whisper of a seraph
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
Automatons grind and roar
Miasma's drive us to the floor
Enslaved by the kings guilty crown
Ritual sacrifice to keep us down
Insidious engines spewing smoke
Clawing at our burning throats
As the people lose their hold
Television leaves us dumb and idle
Hail the mechanical gods and idols
Everybody bow to the iron cold
Give up freedom and you'll be fed
Refuse and they'll paint you red
Eat up their poison and their lies
Accept their disguise and evil eyes
Take in the eagle your soul is sold
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC