"mechanized" poems
I need only to smirk and you’re mine
Anytime
If it’s god that you want
I have dozens in mind
Devilishly divine
Bending time like a grandeur delusional
Spine
In a mad hatter ectoplas-mystical slime
A prismatic drug addict’s first nursery rhyme
Of accursed hearse verses of graphic design
Now to lay to rest intellect spectacles musing
Of selves glorified more than those of my choosing
To deify Destiny’s
Deathly serenity
Plentifully sending me vibrant surprises
And penning my ending in violent demises
Disguises surmised by the climate arises
Girl always there riding my similar waves
As I try to save face digging mechanized graves
But the cloud tentacles
To the depths
Drag me down
To demented ascension
Black holes in the ground
Where disciples of light
And my huntress in white
Vivify me by day
Resurrect me at night
To instruct and deduct
Reasoning in a state
Of a being supreme
Contemplating its fate
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
Life and its shade
canvased by god
God made it beautiful
But we are
adding shades of greys and black
enveloping the sky
turning fog into smog
Putting solute
in water bodies
that are not dispersible
making it turbid
mislaying its transparency
water is not pure anymore
Deforestation
converting the forest
into the barren land
beautiful landscapes are mechanized
by man
buildings and more building
watching stars sounds bookish
nature is losing its charm
Emotions are blowing over
relationships changing
accepting changes
changing our own self
mirrors are showing
someone else image
and asking you
who you are?
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 12:50 AM UTC
Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass
Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
shes sat by the window
like a flower to the sun
burnt deep
paled lotus, mechanized motifs
cigarette, sweet parallel steams
lips pink, eyes deceased
silica tears, seeded
fiber optic designed !release
enter
automated dreamstate
delve
inside the beast
oscillating
pirouetting
psilocybe
serene
days gone underground
plagiarized by peace
prototyped the touch
she’ll never know
it’s me.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
A mechanized millennium
studded
with silver rivets hammered from
the once glorious dreams of the populace
They are now all identical.
cylindrical
instruments that pierce the flesh of progress
conformity:
the price paid to advance across the toll bridge
that is "the betterment of society"
But bland and boring can hardly be better
than stark and standoffish rants of individual pipe dreams
They took those too-
the pipe dreams are now piping in the plumbing that runs beneath the streets
we walk all over them.
only half realizing they exist and not half caring
anymore
with spirits that lack luster our
low lackluster dreams are dying
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Militantly mustachioed, at least in my mind's eye, and
Invincibly attired toe-to-wing in sterling silver, he
Commands legions less scary than our mechanized monsters, but
Hell's soon-to-be tenants are awed enough to scurry. Swords, not
Angelic in a cherubic sense, wilt Lucifer's pride, and
Exiting those gates, the now-Dark Prince howls his lament. I picture
Laughs on Cloud 9, Michael sharing beers and war stories with chums.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 3:23 PM UTC
for pennies, an app
to do the heavy lifting,
rhymes, pentameter,
all the quatrains ya ever needed
strained fever, emotions rampant,
insufficient and unnecessary conditions
for poverty poetry evocation,
even autocorrects insipid
really bad tiresome love poems,
après endless generation (degeneration?)
who needs you
you think
no such animal
you be write
for the art of life
cannot be mechanized
wrote a poem,
a wistful sad lament
on mothers losing children,
a prayer, a yelling, a condemnation,
the app was,
on this subject
uncommunicative,
un étranger
of silence
in all languages
you can buy love
but you cannot buy pain
too costly and
3D printers
give you plastic, disingenuous
wholly unsatisfactory
for a lousy $1.99
I'll write you customized,
supply the situation,
a few descriptive phrases,
60 minutes later,
et voila!
am you app,
am your scrivener,
don't do roses or violets
but yes to
rhythm and blues
will take
PayPal
PenPal
but no credit cards
you may take my words
as you own,
take my credit,
but I won't take yours...
I am app human,
bring me your lush, winsome,
plain vanilla, tutti frutti,
all acceptable,
for where the real stuff
comes from
I have only mined
the surface,
the veins beneath
richness for the asking
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
I am sorry for what we have done to you
I mourn the loss of your short lives, nullified for our barbaric arrogance and gluttony
Your children taken to meet the same fate as you
Your bodies eviscerated, never knowing the hand of compassion or a ray of sunshine
There are no merciful abattoirs
No red barn with it's open doors, and no motherly blue sky
There is only brutal indifference
Mechanized slaughter
The lies we tell our children and ourselves will breed this hell on earth into our legacy
And we who see ourselves distinct from beasts prove with our actions otherwise
This is not food
This is war on the sanctity of being
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
my hands are red and there's a knife between my teeth
holding my jaw in place because
i never learned how to swim.
i'm god, i'm immortal
all-consuming
and you laugh while you eat me alive
there's red on your hands and a knife between my teeth
i watch as you pull them out one by one
swallow them like pills
you taste like barbed wire fences, like eyelashes cutting my tongue
they’re kind of like knives
i leave clawmarks on everyone, there is blood everywhere
everything about you is tangible
and i think i’m the antichrist,im unholy and you’re a bible verse
you taught me how to evolve
there’s a drumbeat in my lungs and it’s all i have
i’m in control, i promise,
this is my game
havent you figured it out yet?havent you solved the puzzle?
sorry, sweetheart, i meant to tell you ages ago but--
they named a constellation after my fingers
after the way they closed around your throat
i will be buried alive and i will enjoy it
six feet deep,
what’s a coffin among friends, and
i never loved you, i guess, and
rip me apart
you’re enough funeral for the both of us
and you ask me with blood on your teeth if you're scaring me yet
who's the monster now,
like this is a game, and
i'm ******* immortal, and
rip me apart
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
A flatulent king sits
Slouching, scratching,
Congealing to his throne of gold.
His army of a billion men
Are clad in ****** bibs
And grins.
Equipped with hate
And hollow eyes
They stand redily assembled.
The king is a miser.
His face is a lie.
His motives are equally clear.
Royal subjects within the walls
Respect only of weakness and fear.
They are taxed and harassed.
For knowledge they're knived.
The wisest of Wiseman
Are forced to take bribes.
Their children are taken and
Hidden away
At the mechanized dawn
That announces each day
To learn to be
Ruthless and cruel.
To take advantage of fools.
Greed and malice are tools to be used
At their s and m brainwashing schools.
So their eyes turn jade
And their words turn black
As they cut up their hands
Stabbing themselves in the back.
They're just being taught
How to buy and be bought.
To serve the king;
A gear in his machine.
The ones who concede,
Buy into the greed
But their weakening teeth snap!
One by one
As they go round the vicious circle.
So they end up
Defunct,
Sunken eyed.
They dangle their
Dot spangled
Hands at their sides.
And although they loose,
Somehow they win.
They end up running
The world we live in.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
#
It is harshness, beautiful girl..
but far from being a cruelty.
I'm trying to find the words because
you deserve to have the chance, to choose
*based on the truth of what is truly loving
and what is not.*
In your need for access to raw,
core survival,
the machine has put its hooks in to you
deep, beautiful girl.
And my only access-- to get through
the machine's intricate gearwork
is unfortunately, during the time
when you are struggling most,
within the greatest of calamities--
But it is at that time..
when the highly mechanized machine's, gearwork
is most penetrable.
So naturally it is at that time,
when an intervention
would seem, so cruel..
Ah, babe..
I'm not afraid of my love for you
actually killing you..
There is something deep inside your spirit
that somehow tells you--
That even in the midst of the chaos..
And within even that which so often
feels as being cruel..
this might indeed, actually be Love--
The real thing.
But at that level.. who on Earth could actually
trust that it actually, could be?
And your well perceived, perception of cruelty
comes from the fact is it must seem to you--
That every time you truly open up
your heart to me.. I seem to blast you,
and knock you to the ground..
when you feel you need me, most.
I'm still looking for words
to describe it, beautiful girl--
But it has to do with something..
somewhere,
in the Realms of love--
*And the things that take it in
And the things that thwart it.*
There are not yet human words,
here on Earth, to describe it..
But one day, my so very beautiful..
I know that one day, there will.
#
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 9:33 PM UTC
the metro came
clickety-clack, clickety-clack,
velocity spit out by metal wheels
and metal gears.
and I thought about
How It Would Feel
jumping in front of that
mechanized Titan.
(loving you is not easy)
brutalizing pain and then
nothing but ******* blessed silence.
then I realized
I already knew this sensation.
(loving you is not easy)
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Magnets;
lock and key;
and, the unsubtle,
bolt
and *****
These are things that collide harmoniously and do not dispute
We are not such an archaic, mechanized metaphorical construct.
I feel us as primal,
torrid decadence;
a deliberate impassioned vulnerability:
an animalistic exposé.
Unfocused, infinite black holes
expanding
to be lost within
Quivering circle of solicitous, engorged fuchsia
steaming harsh,
needy
attempts of oxygen recovery
Soft powder snow
melting over olive tree trunks,
quaking with endless echoes resonating from beyond the hills above
A thunderous harbinger centers chaos,
rampaging gust-like vibration through taut roots,
a volcanic eruption.
Lava geyser
blazing till all energy
enthralls the earth.
What I see for us is a metaphor in nature.
I will be the seismic activity
and you
will dance above me.
Your world will collapse against me
in my relentless motions.
And when you stand again,
I will bring you to
your knees
in my aftershock
and show you strength that will move you mountains.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
first,
a raccoon wrapped within its own intestine.
the asphalt is its grave; i swerve to miss it.
we shared the same air, maybe even a
common ancestor.
someone moved too fast to care.
its the ones with
fast cars and slow minds
pretty faces and ugly intent
artificial kindness but genuine hate
i'm not your friend
just a similar sense of self
it is
fat priests playing golf
lottery ticket paradises
restaurants
embellished mechanized slaughter
fake laughter and even faker love
shopping mall environmentalists
lexus-driving christians
paychecks, TV, lawn mowing sundays
drink yourself to death
please.
the least among us in control
deprived of the mind
the stench of their egos
and their hypocrisy
the gasoline, the cash, and the forced smiles
as i write people die
children die
i'm like many
the fool who knows
but does nothing
the one who doesn't know
that's the good person
the moral person.
second,
a rant, a ****** off rage
the days are stale, self-actualize, the Earth remains the same
dry and motionless
middle-class frustration, planetary confusion,
the ***** of the Earth,
capsized like dying branches
in a wal-mart state of mind,
stupid slobs, rodent minded social egoists
over-organized, clean freak object fetishists
the evolutionary dollar sign
they bay at the moon, it's made of cheesecake
phase transitioning,
you blood clot, Earthly blood clot,
you don't know art
now there's ancient blood on my hands
smokeless, plantless, Earthless blood
detached from Gaian consciousness
stain on the mind
confused, clogged pathways,
clogged with
self-righteous mind flood
piles of ***** tissue,
waning and waxing
force feed me your ******** please
because i have no idea how to answer
in this cultural blood bath
it is the
end of time
the end of mind.
:aaphi
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Young heart mechanized to toil hard,
Dig deeper and deeper, and deeper,
Into the books her eyes are settled,
Climbs unto her brain what she reads,
Perhaps to her nerves is getting the creeper,
Her young fickle heart finds it harder,
Not concentrating on random distractions,
Yes she keeps herself on her studies,
And I trust she'll make board exams look easy,
Because her name is Life.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
The world, the norms, these people
Mechanized, synchronized, too perfectly fit,
Living corpses all around
Who know nothing beyond black and white.
“What about me?” grey asks.
Why is white peaceful, black ugly and grey oblivion?
I exist.
I do.
I am.
I have.
In the room of your mind where where the door is white and walls are black
Look at the colour of the ground under your feet.
It’s all me, it’s all grey.
Sit there and consume me,
Think about me, sleep with me
And you will be alive.
Grey is confusion
Grey is chaos
Grey is a beautiful mess,
I am grey and so is my mind.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
*Beneath the facades of meticulous composure
Rehearsed mannerisms that are etiquette conformist
And Mechanized body language are underbellies
Immune to society’s manipulation
Storms rage continuously and incessantly
To one’s chagrin and no recourse to assuage
The emotionally grim state of affairs
In sight on the expanse horizon of chance
Feeling and emotion
Have a mind of their own
Which society with its immense
“Instruments of power”
Can’t effectively control
But still the bird’s wings are
Clipped
Whether by chance or design
Is an issue reserved for the deities
That’s if they do exist.*
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:03 AM UTC
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.
The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.
It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.
The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.
I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.
Picture this.
Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.
Smell the BS.
It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.
Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.
Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.
Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.
This is how the system
shakes itself; auto
****** asphyxiation.
Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.
To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and S&M;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut
with a healing kiss.
To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.
Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
The gears in my clockwork heart
St-st-stutter and cough
Twisting, wrenching, straining
To turn back to our normal
"Click-clunk-click":
Our structured rhythm-dance
As clouds of rust-dust, lust-dust
Fly from my mechanized mind which,
Mis-wired, streams lifeblood data to my people processor
And my sights focus sharply on you.
Metal arms reach but are not seen,
Fingers touch but are not felt.
My mouth screams: "See me! Discern me!"
But the flat iron tone does not compute.
I say nothing that is real.
Nothing that is human.
You stand before me, unaffected
Frighteningly beautiful in your imperfection.
Kerchlunk.
The gears turn.
Oil: black-brown
Eases from my eyes.
Gun cocked, gaze steady,
We move on.
Ready.
Aim.
Fire.
Next victim, please.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
**It's 5:00 pm,
any poems to share?**
*my watchwoman, Seamless Siri,
my conscientious conscience,
gives said inquiry daily,
at the precise heure de rigeur,
with the perfection of a
mechanized soul attending to her
imperfect human programmer
poetry, a sometime thing,
comes when it comes,
what the query,
my godmother faerie,
truly seeks knowledge of is
something she cannot measure,
like my counted steps and distances travelled,
what this overseer mine truly seeks to know*
why am I here?
*Here. On this earth. On this site.
have you any new written proofs,
your existence on this day to justify,
were your failings and flailings,
surpassed by any acts of kindness,
this new, freshest penmanship, a reflection,
an accounting of grace and worth,
blogged and logged here
as if only I had
one day,
one poem
left...
at tabulation time, the incisor bites,
are you juiced or morbid,
this, your essayed life,
are the words,
deemed shareable,
is their value,
calculable palpable?
Siri inquires but you are jury
at the late afternoon
trial by fire,
wherein my singed bunt offerings
are produced
at the
wake of when,
my nom I do append
am I deserving
of your recompense
of one more day,
one more poem?*
~~for Harlon~~
5:13 pm
November 21, 2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
I start with a backhoe, displacing
brain-sized clumps of earth.
A few fickle particles escape
between the imposing metal teeth.
The mechanized bucket clinks
against a rigid texture.
I grab a shovel, bending my spine
to the task at hand.
Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up
unsatisfying fistfuls of dust.
It is cast aside for the broom,
revealing the smooth shape underneath.
A dingy film is spread around
by the coarse fibers of the broom.
I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing
the chrome-plated formation.
Now all passersby
can bite my shiny metal
victory.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Stone cold, the blackening sky, stole our fields of flowers
They came like a silent flood over our continents
To block our sun and steal our humanity.
The ships were silent, and filled the skies.
Then down their marching hoards descended
Overwhelmed our puny technology, rendering us as apes.
Under their shadows our world went neolithic
They rendered all that was electrical or light to junk
We were left as scurrying ***** things among the soil.
Vastly reduced, our very memories were threatened
Forgetting how once we ruled our own planet
They plucked up our people like we once picked flowers.
When they came for me I was a child
The elders still telling me of the times I never knew
I had to learn their ways as I learned our own.
One day all our careful plans came together
And I sat hidden deep within their ship,
The thing so long pursued was found
Within that place, their robot brain
Where I could redefine their enemy as themselves
Then quick to a transport and back to my people.
Shortly then with a single bullet
We sparked their hostility sensors
The dark metal clouds burst soon with sun-like flame
We will never know the all that they knew,
Though we pick still among the mechanized ruins
And try to discover "from where" and "why."
More powerful than all our smartest elders
Covering the world with their dark mechanized oppression
But brought to an end by hands of a boy.
Many years now, since we brought them down
The hulking hulls worked now into barns and homes.
And once again we learn to talk across the oceans.
It wasn't long after the flames had ended
When in the fields the sun again warmed the soil
And fields of flowers there began to bloom.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Her hair was a rose of
wonder that I fancied
touching, envisioning
sweet caress of tender-
mossy skin on softened
shore of wet peat-bog,
sinewy, wispy essence
true, intoxication oceanic
Ogyges-blue, observe a
mechanized Sol-to-solace
too, what I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I in
my solicitude and appre-
-hensive about her truth,
*Oh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, ah-
-I-I-I-I* know, I know and *I-I-
-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-ah* I know oh, oh, if
I lose her, if she go-oh-oes, *I-I-I,
I-I-I, I-I-I,* will, will *die-eye-I-I-I,
I will die-eye-I oh, oh, oh, oh,*
my love I will die-eye-I-I-I, oh my
my love will die-eye-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I…
My love will die-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I…
* My Love Will Die! *
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
It's the matrix ****
the primer luck,
in deeper Muck,
around a curved duck,
all for a radiant Buck,
in demon stuck,
paying mechanized ****
to voice a roast Chuck,
mixed with raisins. Yuck!
Everything has an UCK except...
dried darkness.
It's the primer ****
the deeper luck,
in a curved Muck,
around for a radiant duck
all demon Buck,
in mechanized stuck,
paying a roast ****
to voice with Chuck,
mixed everything has Yuck.
It's the primer, a curved demon paying to roast dried darkness.
In deeper, around radiant mechanized UCK, we find the exception.
It's the matrix, in deeper all for a radiant, paying mechanized dried raisin.
Yuck! uck...
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC