Poem a Day Challenge - Day 3
PAD Prompt: Machine poem
They whir and buzz and scream,
But you don't know their hymns,
Your music is censored by blind-spots
Befitting masters of cast-iron ingots.
We celebrate their mothers and fathers,
Decked in textbooks with sepia martyrs,
Their artifacts now the steam army,
Writing for idiots, printing infamy.
Would you scan their imbibed magics,
And find lights that froze plastics
Into invisibly contrived puzzles,
That make sense of your hustles?
Float away on heady chapters,
Why bother with the steel captors,
Dredging wombs for ore in dank lairs,
To make skeletons for study-chairs.
Movies need popcorn for thrill,
Forget the cyclopes tending to mills,
Bag my hectare of sun-kissed ears,
And retire with your diesel tears.
The cylinders under your bonnet,
Wish they wrote smooth sonnets,
Their tantrums are not the chatter
Of senile, well-meaning grandmothers.
Even now your clockwork brain
Denies pixels their plain,
Would that my tirades had known
Smoke signals and bronze gongs.
Cavemen had it better, I concur,
No rail-coal to sully their fur,
Stones uncommitted to chapels,
Time calibrated on heaven's lapels.
No black sauces to sunscreen,
No lubricants to drink dust clean,
The charades to our supernatural goals,
Should have conceived no children at all.
Image source: Darius Martin
PAD Prompt: Machine poem
They whir and buzz and scream,
But you don't know their hymns,
Your music is censored by blind-spots
Befitting masters of cast-iron ingots.
We celebrate their mothers and fathers,
Decked in textbooks with sepia martyrs,
Their artifacts now the steam army,
Writing for idiots, printing infamy.
Would you scan their imbibed magics,
And find lights that froze plastics
Into invisibly contrived puzzles,
That make sense of your hustles?
Float away on heady chapters,
Why bother with the steel captors,
Dredging wombs for ore in dank lairs,
To make skeletons for study-chairs.
Movies need popcorn for thrill,
Forget the cyclopes tending to mills,
Bag my hectare of sun-kissed ears,
And retire with your diesel tears.
The cylinders under your bonnet,
Wish they wrote smooth sonnets,
Their tantrums are not the chatter
Of senile, well-meaning grandmothers.
Even now your clockwork brain
Denies pixels their plain,
Would that my tirades had known
Smoke signals and bronze gongs.
Cavemen had it better, I concur,
No rail-coal to sully their fur,
Stones uncommitted to chapels,
Time calibrated on heaven's lapels.
No black sauces to sunscreen,
No lubricants to drink dust clean,
The charades to our supernatural goals,
Should have conceived no children at all.
Image source: Darius Martin
No comments:
Post a Comment