The Machine’s Operation – A Poem by Jp

The terror storm is not yet here for us
so children’s lullabies can still be sung;
aboard bodies are pressed against the gears.

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The Quality of Being Afraid

When I think of the old providence,
the land where gods were megaliths
and human wants were always gone
the moment the chief called for blood,
I think that our ancestors had known
that beating hearts were a pestilence
to be separated from the chest
before the plague had taken hold
of more than just their overlords.

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Blood as Wine

The king still sits on golden throne
drinking our blood as wine;
he needn’t skippers to sail the ocean’s tides,
he needs our hearts and minds.

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Tolerance

We are now so tolerant,
so willing, that intelligent people
are unable to speak freely

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We all Fall Down

Around we go again,
around this ancient dance with plague,
and though we have no rose
blotches to mark our perfect skin

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America’s Suffering

I see beggars suffering silently
uncounted out in the streets,
these old rags slumped over plead
but only each to each

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For Some

For some
razor wire fences ascend
as phoenixes from the ashes
of division;

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The Death of Bees

itness now the death of buzzing bees,
the bloodbath human and the brood’s disease–
witnessed upon the earth, in wild and wood,

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Collapse

I do not wish to be
the voice of the Bering Sea’s struggle,
nor would I deny the plight
of sea ice and polar bears at once living and dying for home.

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Socialism is a Sickness

Do not let the wind towers make you sick;
it’s hate and fear that resonates with men
and makes demons of rotors spinning on the wind
there’s no sickness, except men mid-panic,

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Long Live Our Lady

We need the Old Colossus now
with it’s defiant blazing torch
as architype for our goddess

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This Brave New World

We are the heads
above La Brea’s pits,
our limbs all stuck in tar.

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No More Gold Gods

No more porcelain gods,
or the prejudice for the painted gods,
or the gods of plastic and oil;

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What if?

What if I made you change
your ideologies today?
there’s babies soft and strange
and hungry human hearts at play
where algorithms dare not go.

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Gonzo is Dead

Oh, man, they’re gonna make it look like suicide
and type a note on how life is not all joyrides

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Bent and Broken

Neither mother, maiden, nor crowne
can morn more the passing of this nation

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Build Back Better

Do not believe bankers, princes,
or governments; for all their wealth,
glittering gold, and grasping at control,

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I See a Darkness

I will not be remembered,
not in the history classes
or in the breath
that fogs rose colored glasses
when widows weep at dawn.

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The Bluebird and the Apocalypse

There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.

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The Cynical Ones

We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,
whispering alone,

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