"manufactory" poems
Mozart changes the color
of eyes from deep blue
to see green.
Work with me and I'll
summon up everyone's
artificial ancient animals.
Sleek thin machines
whizz with mechanism
pumping out more and more
machines to make machines
to make metals
for more machines.
Shine chrome greased
and spinning while
white coated retrievers
pace exactly random,
occasionally checking
their clip boards.
Machines whizz on,
we could tune a cello
with their perfect hum.
We could tune a tuning fork
with their perfect hum.
Machines for materials
for machines that melt
and remold old machines
to new. Born machines.
Wet black discs
slide clean downward
only to spiral
upward again.
Clarinet to oboe,
slurred crescendo
back down in again.
Then forward:
Back,
Up,
Left,
and left music
back down in again.
"Where's our end?"
and back down in again.
"I see the top!"
and back down in again.
"Talk to me, please!"
and back down in again.
"Throw me a float!"
and back down in again.
And sink, and sink
back down in again
back down in again
back down in again
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Awkwardly leaning forward, sloping over damp, brown earth,
stands a young boy’s chiselled memory.
Above rooks caw incessantly in budding branches,
yet little ever grew beneath the great yew’s venerable shadow.
Here beside cold, forgotten, lichened stones,
thin pale weeds strain for scarce obtainable light.
Small insects forage through fallen leaf litter
whilst passing squirrels move swiftly on, sniffing decay.
Lettering barely legible, a long-dead stonemason’s art
serves only now as a brief refuge for tiny red mites;
and yet for those with eyes to see a tragic tale is here,
a tale two hundred years in the telling.
“Hic Iacet Poor Benjamin,
who did Fall into some Awful Vat
within his Father’s Manufactory,
whereby he Perished,
Scalded like a Cat.
No more the Trees of Youth he’ll Climb,
for Ten Short Years was all his Time.”
Awkwardly leaning forward, sloping over damp, brown earth,
stands a young boy’s chiselled memory.
Above rooks caw incessantly in budding branches,
yet little ever grew beneath the great yew’s venerable shadow.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
Im building a plant
200 billion worth
Im building
A gun
An gun restore
Manufactory
Not like the ones now
Im talking no serial
Im buying all
New temu
Automatics
Nationwide
This includes
Camps
Barracks
Wharehouse
Underground bunkers
Underground facilities
If we spent 500 billion
Thats ok too
Im going to arm my civilians
****** gave everyone a gun
Me too 2024
Mash em down
As fast they respawn
They two isles on my nugget
The new amazon
Ammunition
Hurry buy 100
Not rounds
100 pounds
50 cal sounds 2 miles rooftop
On the pile
Look out
Look over
Top my city
Whats about to go down
More guns
More ammo
Americafied
Greatest Nation Alive
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 9:19 PM UTC