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Carlo C Gomez Dec 2022
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"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." — Vladimir Nabokov

Clockworks and Ferris wheels
mix time and laughter into their spin
and then comes twilight
and a vacant lot
of endless cycles:
hide and seek in a night-time labyrinth
and then the night walks begin
this fear of emptiness
—time is not a straight line

a warning to the curious:
don't ever trust the stars
to guide you
in the black hit of space
the warmth of our flare's lifespan
is a true testament to the skill and sorcery
found in every limb, larynx
and lovelorn heart
of this dimming voidance
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Soot blackened fruit of economic glory,
the rolling steel contraption of sacred convenience
propelled from graveyards of putrefied fuel.
Flatulent streams of gaseous, stinking voidance
naught but a cockroach could ever hope to breath.


"A Buck eighty-three per gallon!
**** son, I remember when
Five dollars filled my twenty-gallon tank!
Corporate *******, gouging the sainted American soul!
How dare they abuse the Holy, Consuming Masses so!


That's not the righteous American Way."


Plucked from a tree
nurtured from a poisoned pool,
the maître de serves us with sumptuous flair
the glistening metal fruit of demanding fools
basted in Gaia's own sweet, dark blood.
With greedy flourish we consume and selfishly devour
till the piper appears demanding just payment.

Then we scamper towards the door
pointing greasy, crooked fingers,
as we scurry away with ne'er a simple gratuity.
The entire world pays for our
selfish deeds
and petty needs
for ivory seeds.
A corporate corrigendum stricken from the ledger
with a well-placed bomb, or two, or three.


"Five dollars!
Crap, that's what those haughty Europeans pay!
But I'm a proud American!
I'll yell, I'll scream, and maybe whine just a bit!
I may even e-mail that **** crooked fool in Congress.
I have rights proclaimed by God's own gift of dominion.
I am preserving what's just, only right!


The glorious American Way."


"A chicken in every ***", was once the dream of all but a few.
Now greedy spoiled children; we thoughtlessly proclaim,
"Two cars in each garage is just, and rightly due."
****** all ****** beauty that crosses our path
partial redemption lies in one simple truth.
Not all the world has yet to gain, “Our Precious Way”.
For if so, the pitiful scraps of beauty that still remain
would quickly be consumed in ******, hosted by fattened fools.


"Over ten dollars a gallon!
That's a blasted crime!
**** Politicians
their hands are bloodied black!
Twenty hours of work per week
just to fill my trusty Cadillac!


Consumption is The American Way"


Even a naked primitive, scavenging the forest floor
instructs his children better then we.
"When death's own serpent
lies coiled 'neath a beautiful fruited tree,
ignore the tempting orbs
for their price must and will be paid."

Alas, for us it may be too late.
We lay trapped within a corporate circle of death,
our children inherit a scarred and barren earth.
Will they thank us or curse our very graves,
Or even remember what once was, "Our Way?"


"OK kids, it's time for bed.
Yes little Susie, tonight's story was true
whispered from Grandfather's own lips.
Once long ago, in a glorious lost day
when fuel cost just ten dollars per unit.
Just think of that, one tenth of what it cost today.
Now go to sleep, and tighten those masks.
Oxygen cost money too, nearly five bucks per litre.
Those **** politicians, we should have learned
when we had a choice and air was still free;
memories from a faded time of make believe.


The good old, American Way."

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Loxias Dec 2019
My eyes are fixed seeing nothing at nowhere,
Glued looking front towards voidance of thy existence.
My world seems to fade,
Your truth is my fate.
And me?
I don't know...
Lame; but it's the same.
Being a white crow make me insane,
And one multipied by you doesn't make you sane.
Your belief pushing me as if I'm bane,
But reality those white crows are the one being slain.
Loxias, to those who are in the edge..
cmp Sep 2020
hear ye
inner void riddle our bliss
sinner frickle voidance we of time surpass
though meek dead inherit soil or pollutant
tru gawd terraform condition
excel all's wake of just being alive
well-lived

— The End —