"machiavellian" poems - Hello Poetry

Retail-hunter gatherers pick clean processed bones, digging graves with their shiny teeth, studious in their reveries as they drone past worlds dumped in the thresher; the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped gore splayed lustily before the managers wound tight in Machiavellian design. A shepherd herds his flock of wreathed iron back to its pen, its skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by swords flung from lambent eyes of pre-dawn’s shunting chariots Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting colours to float through archipelagos of paper towel and chocolate blocks past the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like nightshade—slutty and serene—coating shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the shelves reach their arms out for more. The check out chick hatches a sense of déjà vu as carrots and biscuits drone towards her mind berEFT of any twitching sense of POSsibility that wised up and flew this leering coop and deep in her catalogue of grey folds something stillborn and waxen is perched on gleaming steel, reeling out her guts like cassette tape with jerky nightmare arms and laughing like a banker watching ***** films, mornings dull cerise an invocation through auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.

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Jul 25, 2013

Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC

dj-goodwin-1

supermarket

Retail-hunter gatherers pick clean processed bones, digging graves with their shiny teeth, studious in their reveries as they drone past worlds dumped in the thresher; the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped gore splayed lustily before the managers wound tight in Machiavellian design. A shepherd herds his flock of wreathed iron back to its pen, its skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by swords flung from lambent eyes of pre-dawn’s shunting chariots Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting colours to float through archipelagos of paper towel and chocolate blocks past the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like nightshade—slutty and serene—coating shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the shelves reach their arms out for more. The check out chick hatches a sense of déjà vu as carrots and biscuits drone towards her mind berEFT of any twitching sense of POSsibility that wised up and flew this leering coop and deep in her catalogue of grey folds something stillborn and waxen is perched on gleaming steel, reeling out her guts like cassette tape with jerky nightmare arms and laughing like a banker watching ***** films, mornings dull cerise an invocation through auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.