"industrialized" poems
The place was dangerous as hell; we had no business being there. It was a complex, composed of four immense structures, looming on the bluffs between Lake Michigan and a ghost town. I'm not sure which side of the fence brought forth more eeriness - the sight of four massive industrial skeletons was indeed an eerie one, but within the village that must endure it's haunting presence persists a dwindling heartbeat... and together they produced a heightened effect of slow decay - and that was what drew me in.
The place was magnificent day or night.
By day, we'd explore the groundworks while the light allowed us to admire the massive machinery, which by then had accumulated copious amounts of corrosion. All those dead giants, never to function again. In the spring time, beams of light would penetrate the ceiling above, caving in from years of stress sans stress tests. Even when the light was not shining through, one could make out where the beams have been because in their wake they left a trail of life. Up to that point in my life I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever seen - a thousand tons of old machinery, and a stubborn sunbeam poking through, incubating it's au natural industrialized chia pet.
By night, we would ascend to the rooftops of these four story horror stories and gaze up at the stars. Sometimes, when our ***** were feeling particularly swelled, we'd venture across the rooftops as if in some post-apocalyptic videogame. And sometimes when we were feeling a bit rebellious and artistic, we'd bring along some cans of spray paint and redecorate to our desire. Oh, and another reason the place reeked of death was surely due to it being a glue factory... wherein horses were killed in order to gain access to their foot-stuff. I was told by an unfortunate local that they'd bury the unwanted horse parts in big pits back behind the place... this man had told me that he fell into one while wandering around back there - nearly died trying to get out.
We knew the place was soon to be leveled, but we did not know when. Eventually I ended up moving out of state for a while, and alas, upon my return my childhood fascination was no more. shrugs... So it goes.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
Leather creaks, quietly
in the dark
thick and musky
wild hides sit in opposition
to progress?
latex stretches shiny
conforming to every curve
needing not sweat to glisten
taut and cheap
industrialized
still isn't civilized
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
we both work in the postal service
but neither one of us
has ever sent a single love letter
maybe it's the drill of the job
maybe its the grind of the machines
or the clack of the keyboards
grind turns to a drone
and i look around to what we thought
were industrialized patents
were actually what we had once considered our friends
was that where they disappeared to?
instead of quitting the dead end
i had assumed too fearful to follow the leap
they hid away in mail bins and P.O. boxes
i thought i was alone
maybe i was
maybe they really did leave
their souls gone
with empty shells of bodies
remnants of what once was
yes
i am still alone
those who i knew have fled the building
in search of a more meaningful existence
winding in up in god knows where
anywhere but here
these gluttonous pantomimes only accept hopefuls
midlife crises who leap
at the opportunity for promotion
like increasing payroll would reduce their age
same as the twenty five year old liberal art grads who need a filler
to help pay rent while they work
on what will collectively become hundreds of thousands of volumes unpublished
here i stand
twenty eight years old
and strip off my badge
as it falls to the floor
i walk out the door
say hello to the next boarding train
(last stop your hometown)
and goodbye to the dead end road.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.
I haven’t heard sirens in days.
still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.
no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.
no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.
and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
Smiling liars, Laughing tyrants, Suppliers
Of the drug that keeps us spinning
The web of deceit for our precious
Exploiters of production, masters of destruction,
They can always spare a little time,
To turn their noses down at you.
Understanding Uncle Samson,
Receding hairlines never seemed so cruel.
Steady diets, Miracle migrants,
Poised and ready
To deliver the solution to you.
Glorified Ignorance, Celebrated Apathy,
The mixture slowly brought to brew
Industrialized dreams streamed directly,
Born of seduction and designed for consumption
Your ideas no longer belong to you.
The Answer is hidden, at the end
Of a sentence
The link to extinction will surely
Be mentioned
As hope rests
While peace detests
Those souls
Were they well intentioned?
Chemically altered, biology falters,
Murdering the sacred sphere
Who to trust?
The reason we must
Purge the demigods with spears
Beyond the philosophies
Man believes the falsities
The angry mob taught him
To enslave himself with
Fear
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
Before the Dawn Of Agriculture men like ME where slapped into the shadow of ****** shame but now who needs muscles or chiseled chins, great size or strength, a lover’s passion or a manly countenance ‘cause for ten thousandyears now I can persecute any female for infidelity towards ME and hold paternity privilege over MY biological children because we exceptional farmers invented marriage to destroy human sexuality by enslaving women with MY property for *** so I no longer need to share or compete or settle for an alpha males’ sloppy seconds within foraging groups that are forced to share what they carry with them instead of our enforced legal couplings that takes the innocent, primal pleasure and mystery out of *** by connectingshtooping to birth thanks to dirt MY dirt MY very own thousand acres of seeded soil littered with pens full of MY trapped sheep, cattle, goats and pigs which means I can pork any female I fancy and destroy any man who thwarts MY desire as simply as the bulls I castrate into submission to easily herd into MY slaughterhouses that feed all the inferior people no longerdependent on their hunting and gathering skills but on ME to stay alive so not only am I not considered a sociopath by hoarding food but am praised at harvest time like a ********* Babe Ruth hero because I have legally claimed and legally ***** those precious few life giving inches of topsoil with rotating crops and extended grasslands that exhausts and shrinks the earth, MY earth MY reign of forcing agricultural workers to bend over in the fields, stupidly exposing hairless backs to sun poisoning instead of their protective hunters’ heads of hair harvesting MY food that shrinks the testicles of everyone who is forced to feed on the cheap calories of MY industrialized plants and animals that lowers fertility, but who needs big ***** anymore when you don’t have to **** larger animals in order to survive or attract females with your superior physical attributes proving I am the social parasite Sultan of Swat who grows fat on the food I’ve seized by stealingPaleo land in the name of government protected ownership.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
f this.
and that.
f the soul-sucking siphons.
f the **** ******** on all the things.
f the wretched that ravages souls.
f plundering the vast unknown. f the broken that breaks us apart. f the pain that can’t find the exit door. f the non sequiturs that never stop. f all the thinks I'll never get to know. f the desert that evaporates technicolor dreams. f the reams of unsung ink.
f getting up too early. f never enough sleep.
f having no focus because mind is always trying to escape.
f the architects of this unending industrialized violent puppet reality TV.
f not having patience for utmost important because basic survival in this free range slave menagerie is just too overwhelming and chips away daily at already threadbare sanity.
f the aches under these ribs always begging for more.
f the abyss that eats cravings caved in for breakfast.
f the knowing that knows how awesomely amazingly brilliant loving flipping mind-glowingly ecstatic and jovial like a MF this existence could be.
it haunts me:
iridescent reflective ascendant peacocked wings
fluttering phoenixflies burst from ill-fit cocoons
surfing air so ******* fresh
even the Lorax ain’t got **** to say - he’s dancing
with kombucha in one hand and a DMT pipe in the other
at the festival called, I dunno, Just Because it’s ******* Monday
and we could
love and make and dream and play
all day every day every year every life...
and I look over
at this giddy ******
epic little boy version of me
and I think:
****
I have to keep trying
keep believing in the things
because the thought of leaving him
in this world, as-is
without me
is the hardest thing
I’ve ever had to think
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
I need a vacation.
Maybe a trip to Italy.
I gotta revitalize.
Maybe, Pompeii.
I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.
There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.
I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.
Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.
My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.
I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?
The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.
What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
the moon is cast, high in the sky and so far away
I long for the fields that span endlessly into
absolute nothingness.
I cannot bear the industrialized life,
dreaming, there are no gas filled automotives
or smoke stacks pouring their noxious fumes
into the sky.
I sit on the shoreline, and watch the clouds pass me by.
Waiting, I could wade in
and simply say goodbye.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
I miss you.
and the sick satisfaction of adrenaline.
the openness of your pantry
and sensitivity to dander that remains solely to your house.
jovial but once this year
I have exiled myself to other islands
to watch in golden telescopes
some others fill the gaps in which I made
yet I’ll blame you
for my own banishment
I am a prime example
of brains before beauty
putting my heart on the lines of loose leaf
Serotonin production ceased when steam was industrialized
drown me, dopamine
save my friendship
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
"my identification lies in the hopeless psychedelic absurdities of ninety year old existentialists and the macabre **** trails of industrialized ghosts
Slaying scissor handed dragons of whirlwind dimensions from plain abject boredom
Smashed with broken Knuckled collisions against walls of mimetic iron and steel
as territorial **** measuring fanatics play out semiotic fantasies of heroic rigor mortis but i don't want to get political
because the cosmic play is of the ancient masters repeatedly tripping over each other
and i don't claim to know the rules if there are any
So for now i will bash my brains and hair against this black holed vacuum of being in itself
and try to remember that the uncertainty principle doesn't allow us to know position and velocity simultaneously
and that by observing the world it is irrevocably changed by the power of Schrodinger's Cat
I would tear that ******* ******* to shreds if I looked in the box
So next time around i'll mechanically saw off my arms and see if they will grow back
and burn gasoline in a shovel mesmerized by the blue flames and melted animal ecstasies connecting all to the light of infinite unknowing"
Said the dog with the bone in his mouth. I asked him
"how can you talk with food in your mouth like that? it's dreadful"
He did not reply.
I pondered his speech on the train home and filled a balloon with nitrous,
tide it off and began to punch it while holding the rubber band attached.
a man with knuckle tattoos next to me popped it with a pen
I miss my nitrous balloon
But i didn't have time to think about it because a Hottentot venus in yoga pants with that *** like bow! just walked past
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
I’ve diagnosed it with industrialized rickets,
stomach is open and distended
metal is bowed with greenstick
fractures, hard and bendable,
compensating with growth
disturbances and wider wrists.
If I squint enough
there is movement
in permanent metal, micro-movements
as the ants shape sand hills
far from half-buried
fire-hydrants and barely there
Red Hot Chili Peppers
laced with frat-boy yells.
I’ve named it insieme
just far enough away to be together.
It’s body isn’t big enough
for all the purpose that it has.
At some point it’s been welded,
Atomic number 29,
add tin and it becomes 79.
Gold. It’s on fire, comprised
of a thousand tiny synthetic
flames fused together by rust.
It’s too open a place.
It should be found in ignorant alleyways
where half smoked cigarette butts marry
pavement, where brash teenagers go to cry.
The ants make sense though.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
I take a quick journey on up the road
Things I see make emotions explode
A lofty green meadow is what I seek
Congested construction is what I meet
Six lanes roads blast a once fluttering forest
Middle class homes rise as mountains at best
Standing in playplace of childhood
Woodland games of youth, ever so good
No, not anymore, now industrialized
They say we must be commercialized
No! I say, what will the critters do
They say who needs em, **** fools
How long will it be 'for luscious green's gone
Replaced by business, the new icon
No trees no bushes no grass
Just some corporate ***
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:39 PM UTC
She lays out her heart
On her sleeve
Both sleeves
As the red
Carpet is rolled
Out for royalty
Whether for
Honor or dishonor
But always
For ceremony
It beats in polyrhythms
Under and on her
Many layered epidermis
Whose layers
Perhaps only a mystical
Archeologist could
Analyze
The complexity of an
Ancient undecipherable book
Created by years of damaging
Neural and spiritual
Pathways by absorbing
The essence of her
Personal peace pipe
Which is bereft of the
Essential factors found
In thousands of years of
Dream religion
She fancies herself
A new breed of
Shaman perhaps
A connection broken
At an unknown time
In her spirit
But felt strongly
And deeply as
Phantom pain
Evident in her
Crystal ball
And stargazing
A remnant of
A long lost tribe
A tapestry of
Religions
Trivialized
Pop cultural
Spirituality
And superstition
Her motives
Misplaced and obscure
But definitely from
A healing source
But the channels are
Eroded and indefinable
Bastardized by
Extraneous channels
And alien sources
A trickle of water
In a dry river bed
All muddled into
This enigma and
Multicolored tapestry
Which is often
Misunderstood
And underestimated
Protected by the
Thick epidermis
And hard to follow
Cardiac polyrhythms
Revealed when her
Many layered tongue
Lashes out and cuts deep
Not intending to control
And manipulate
With leadership
Origins perhaps in the
Shaman or tribal leader
But definitely
Out of place and time
Since their true essence
Has been lost through
Her Westernized
Industrialized
And hyper-capitalized mind
And scattered to the four winds.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
while out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting ***** trained undone
via my ***** ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating a woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m**f*** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with ****** spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with their warrior whoosh!
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
My last memory of…you
I drove all the way through town, chain-smoking through half
my pack as I burned deep inside from stoking the ashed embers of a fire
I had attempted to smother before it burned us both out after it had licked
Its way up my whole body—
But I reveled in how it ate me from the
deepest
inside while I let the tobacco
consume the healthy volume of my lungs leaving me breathless which I prayed
would either make you notice the red in my cheeks
or make you worry about me
in contrast from the systematic silence that had deafened our
friendship and scarred
any possibility of our future, but
when I got there you told me to drop the habit so it didn’t linger in my hair.
You also pointed out where the butts had rubbed away my lipstick and with a look that made
me want to smack
you across the face, but
also crush your lips
with mine because it
deepened your gaze
and sharpened your jaw
instead I said I’d gladly put the rest on you. Your friends, the Miss Priss Brigade,
saw chipped nail polish and slightly dull skin and last summer’s leftovers and I knew
we’d never end up
unfiltered and imperfect in the barely industrialized studio flirtingly touching
and kissing and dreaming and enchanting ourselves with the what-ifs of a future
we saw through wine glasses worn
by teenagers who didn’t know love from illusion.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
she never intended to spit out buildings
or spew smoke into the atmosphere
she didn't dream of rush hour
she could've had so much power
light years away
she stays hidden in dismay
every time, disappointed
her telescope pointed
at more earthly disarray
and the galaxies surrounding her
could never compare
to the earth that she dreamed to become
the earth we will never see
the stardust that was ready to
seep through her pores
but we blocked off her skin
we cut off her wings
and stars can't shine if they're covered
(the most difficult thing to do is simplify your life and detach yourself from the consumerist, industrialized society we've become.
to identify with a place,
you must love the land.
and to love the land,
you must connect with it.
fall in love with the natural, simple beauty of your country
and of countries and cultures around the world.
nature's a gift and many of us never end up unwrapping it)
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
I am industrialized,
I have bloodshot eyes.
I love the sound of machine,
I love dough, moolah, green.
I will **** because I’m told to,
I will do things I'm told not to do.
I will lie, cheat, and steal,
I no longer truly feel.
I **** and I ****
I never get my fill.
I’m a big fan of gore,
I always want more.
I feed on anger and hate,
I charge everyone with such high rates.
I will fight those who will not defend,
I love killing my fellow men.
I can **** every living thing,
I can win millions if I could learn to sing.
I never regret the decisions I've made,
I only want to get laid.
I will ****** for love,
I will strive for a way above.
I am the definition of insanity,
I love *** and profanity.
My own life slips through my hands,
like grains of sand,
I am man.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Children march in boots
too big for their feet
blinders too close to their eyes
uniforms worn too tightly
around their hearts
left left left right left
till their is nothing left
of our children pretending
to be men who are brave
and pretending to be women
who have equality
and pretending to be brothers
who don't have to fear for their lives
because of the skin the were born in
and sisters pretending
they don't have to fear
their fathers and uncles and brothers
and cousins and preachers and friends and husbands
as much as they do
the kindness of strangers
and we sit on our sofas and lazy boys and kitchen tables
pretending the news isn't so bad
and pretending
that war is a necessary business
and pretending that the phrase
**** culture"
isn't something vile that drags itself through our minds
and up our throats
and out our mouths
and pretending clichés like
"boys will be boys"
makes it all "ok"
(at least for little boys born
to the right father
of the right name
of the right wealth)
and pretending that
she should have known better
and pretending that
he should have complied
to being stripped of his right to live
which ironically would
have still ended up
with him bleeding to death
which really isn't ironic
but just ****** up
but I almost forget
this is all just pretend
as we sit at our table
of disinterest and hashtags
and cold truths
being covered in warm lies
and is that the death
of the American dream
I smell cooling off in the window seal
overlooking the corruption
and destruction
and industrialized nation
that is nothing more
than a cage to keep us safe
from our own thoughts
because we wouldn't want
to know that the boots
they sell to our children
have already been worn
and are already covered
in mud and blood and death
and we still let them march away
as we pretend
it will all be ok...
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 3:57 PM UTC
This car dealership coffee and styrofoam cup,
Makes me wonder how I'd live,
If I were to surrender or run,
Everything seems so paper here,
So two-dimensional so thin,
Suburban castles could be blown away by reality's wind,
I wonder how the people still exist,
Cardboard prop ups,
Nobody knowing the world or love,
Just what propaganda has told us,
Nobody realizes we are not alive,
Slaves to the modern idea of conformity and strife,
People claim find god in glory and wealth,
Along with a prescribed happiness,
But god drifts in the air and in the sea,
She is the desert breeze and the rain of spring,
Wars rage over unknowns rulers' precedence,
Rather than breathing the carcinogen air of humanity's present,
And I just watch,
Drifting to come close to living,
Loathing to come close to loving,
Mentally deteriorating to come close to reality,
Dying to come close to faith,
Dying to come close to an escape,
Dying to come close to clarity,
To life,
If I were submerged in the dirt,
I'd be held by god,
And embraced by Allah,
Consumed by all deities who are one in the same,
And loved for what stories my disintegrating bones told,
Rather than my fresh faced human skin,
Rather than my cardboard exterior,
Rather than my papered mask,
I'd find life by dying,
And faith by death,
So ask me once more why I smile through my cancer bearing 7 minutes of heaven,
In this paper mansion of a business,
Ask me why I let the caffeine soak through my veins and over stimulate my heart,
From this industrialized styrofoam cup,
Though you already know,
I'm only doing what we all are,
Trying to find out how to exist,
Only I've realized it's not about life,
It's about the exit.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Sons of the sun,
come together as one.
Fester and boil,
melt into the soil.
Fertilize our mother Earth,
our crutch since our birth.
The birth of man began the end,
for man and Mother Nature are not friends.
Modern day industry saturates our minds,
with pretty toys and fancy cars alike.
We feed into the killers, as Mother Nature dies,
our bodies and our minds, both industrialized.
That's why I plea,
for the sake of you and me,
sons of the sun,
come together as one.
Fester and boil,
melt into the soil,
and save us all.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Foie gras
Exploitation of geese
Posh food
Cows with udder
Too big for their bodies
Industrialized
Greyhounds
Get legs broken
If too slow
Bleeding bull
Disorientated in the sand
Slowly dying
Taser rowdy whites
On uncontrollable blacks
A gun is handy
Water
Rocks splinter rollers
The breakers hones the rocks
Into shark fins
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
Modern Haiku
Foie gras
Exploitation of geese
Posh food
Cows with udder
Too big for their bodies
Industrialized
Greyhounds
Get legs broken
If too slow
Bleeding bull
Disorientated in the sand
Slowly dying
Taser rowdy whites
On incontrollable blacks
A gun is handy
Water
Rocks splinter rollers
The breakers hones the rocks
Into shark fins
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 7:04 AM UTC
The sunset creeps down into the night
The rusted beast slowly roars to life
Cookie cutter streets from the birds eye
Mutter dusty creaks of a long decline
No one cares to hear
The opinions
Of the gears
Of pinions
Though they drive the wheel
So the machine clangs on ever despised
Cylinders bang off into the sky
Raining it's pollution on the population
An asbestos linked to cancer of aspirations
And the chemo is to kneel
Join all the people, be a good little cog
Behind white steeples are the black clouds of our smog
So feed the coal into the engine
Let the soul underneath it's skin
The mechanism leaps and starts to shutter
The heart beats, the eyelids flutter
As electricity strikes the coil
You'll be the next to breathe in the spoils
Of a steampunk, heretic machine
Just scrap and junk in the American dream
My, how green was the valley I used to dwell
Now choked on debris, a contaminated shell
A lonely leaf, pushed on by the breeze
Ground in the teeth of this incessant machine
No one dares
To raise a hand
All to scared
To break the shaft
And bring it all to a screeching halt
So it produces more toxins into the air
As it loosens the conscience for the despair
That we'll work to the bone and give it all trying to save
Let ourselves be robbed of the cradle and forced into the grave
In our blueprints there's a fault
Back in line, you just traded a number for a name
Content that's fine, you go back to fanning the flame
So feed the coal into the engine
Let the soul underneath it's skin
The mechanism leaps and starts to shutter
The heart beats, the eyelids flutter
As electricity strikes the coil
You'll be the next to breathe in the spoils
Of a steampunk, heretic machine
Just gears and junk in the American dream
My lungs oxidize
As I breathe in your sulfur
From the inside
Red rust flows like an ulcer
As the fire of this machine
Burns on into the night
Etching a depressing scene
Of dusk across the sky
A post-apocalyptic
Not so cryptic
Vision of the life and death
Of a botched by design
Once top of the line
Factory of labored breath
Designed for so much more than this
But only seen through the eyes of an alchemist
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
I
slow and
rosy fingertips
apologized
to a final strip of pavement
as they brushed the
remaining crumbs of
sunlight into a different sky &
I sat on the porch
for 17 minutes,
recording the halos of thinly suspended
rain, bright and ringed,
dissolving behind each car
until you came outside
to drive me back home
II
"I'm a nomad"8
he exhaled, smoke rising
from the hand not occupied
by the steering wheel.
she looked at him,
and then away.
she did not
watch his eyes.
"I'll come to you."
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&"...The rotational period and seasonal cycle [of the planet NowWhat] are likewise similar to those of earth, as is the tilt that produces the seasons..."
8"Peripatetic nomads, who offer the skills of a craft or trade to those with whom they travel, are most common in industrialized nations."
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC