The wordsmithy raided the vowel-shed For a round “O” to hold up surrounding consonants. In the smithy he realized that alone it could not hold the “R” and “T” together, But he always kept a few “E” at the workbench. In two short decades he found his job obsoleted by script kiddies crawling the fourth channel, RSI brain cramps birthing automated skynet.
Black twisted gnarled gristle Lawn dance and howl whistle Spew out the fire bile Hate-wracked the whole while Teeth gnawing blood-glistened No time to love-listen. Can’t rue the damned day Eternity’s the same way Dance down the death-glade Empty with heart spayed. What’s left is tied taut; Pain fills the no-thought. What was the self thing, Clutched, did this hell bring?
He drove into the dark night That street lamps barely beat back with bleak light. The spastic highway loomed languid, leapt aside, Bowed down before the doomed ride As he barrelled toward his dead bride, Seeking pitch to patch the gape in his side.
Darksomeness engulfs Low fallow fields left Firm as rock dried in sun, Cold as crisp iceberg submerged. Submariners stumble on Unseen fissues, folds, Crevasses, barren blisters Of lifeless locked land. Passengers punched their tickets, Paid their fares, folded Clothes, packed bags, braved Jet lag just to be here. Groping in obsidian night, all Rend asunder suddenly, then Rend again, rend again, Ever tearing never ending Souls unbending, breaking o’er And o’er again in pain
stars scream heavy metal silver screen heart strings tugged taut ripped clean death dealt down to damn mean man brought through no more green played for laughs aged thirteen main stream man’s a sad scene
In the morning as I brushed my teeth I vowed to mark the day by valiant ways: To rescue orphans, open up a shop, Write that novel, win that maiden’s heart, Climb that hill, convince a bitter friend Of God’s wide mercy, till the soil, plant The choicest vegetables, grill meat Upon an open flame. In short, Engage in derring-do, And leave upon the earth a healthy brand. Instead I shuffled off toward my job
The tree-struck star stuck the landing, Knees nailed to ground, brow down, Soul still ensconced in briar crown. Apart from Him he’d hewn to Aspirations, plans He’d blewn to Smithereens; and left bereft he Clung to holy barque.
Sitting on the curb by the park bench Barefoot listen to the buzz growl Motors on the tires on the asphalt on the feet What a sandwich, what a sandwich Now God don’t exist but oh! this sandwich Slave to the toil for the belly, the hunger Wish I was slave for the love of another We born let to die and then, my brother The poet look cockeyed at whistling trees
Love lies crouched on haunches, Coiled prehensile set to spring Unsuspecting upon prey. In the proper hour Love leaps, Thrusting self through myocardial tissue, Dissolving as a tear gas in the bloodstream.
Hurtling slowly through the void Floating about in a flight suit Checking, rechecking the ship’s math Occasionally putting the helmet on There are lots of checklists in space The ship always beats him at chess He never watches films anymore. He never reads novels anymore. Sometimes he cranks up the music, And sometimes he drifts in the silence. When he can’t sleep, he remembers when he used to dance the tango.
Wage servants sit glued to the glowing Of the monitors, manipulating Electrons of Industry. Inside, spleen gives way to toxins Untouched by liver, imbibed After terms of indenture. In deeper, indivisible selves wither, Except for the few that forge fearsomeness there.
In the realm of Whimsy everything’s verdant: Centaurs at leisure braid each other’s hair. Ogres belch as they work on their cross-stitch. Weeping willow branches sparkle like wind-chimes. Knights take care not to trample on butterflies, Lest the King be unable to brew his tea. Unsurprisingly, mimes have nothing to say. Velveteen unicorns eat day-glo batteries, Drink carbonated rainbows. On Thursdays the King distributes gold stars To everyone who has achieved.
Vile split of self from same, Extinguishing of vital flame; Halfway there is merely maim. In factories and bathroom stalls, Farmer’s fields and city halls, This interloper all men calls.
Bits byte the address space All round the spinning plate, In the Mathematic place; Objects soon instantiate; Network packets rush to take; Threads start to bifurcate; Dot/configure and and make; Computation filled with grace. Unto us, Von Neumann spake.
I saw the best minds of mah generation Hurtling down the intertubes Captioning photos of felines in bold sans serif cuteness aplenty, lolling all over myself Eager to disprove or win by force your momma, mah bukkit, bukkake Full of fail Let us read this treatise on the death star, how it is like unto a womb. THIS POEM HAS BEEN RICK-ROLLED I could bury you with a staggering inventory of despicable instaculture