Infrastructure

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Infrastructure

Steel and iron mesh together.

Stomping upon our resistance

with the insistence of a battering

fist, propaganda shit.

 

Slipped; fell face first, mud to

be removed from my mouth piece.

A demagogues mosque burns;

intriguing cover ups block out the

sun. Baking swollen sores, growing

while media mind’s infiltrate the

once divine.

 

Killing fields,

The amber waves of grain,

nourished by the dead’s

remains.

 

New seeds instantaneously

diseased, by the contaminated

supply of the life offered. We

gorge ourselves in our children’s

images; the chances we had before

the buck was passed, and we relapse

while complacent strands restrain.

 

Acid tears of rain, disintegrate

the self gratulating temple

constructed for our defective

reflection, of ourselves in them.

The pews fill with a new flock.

Genuflecting, instead of

exploring retrospection, the

collar tightens.

 

Subservient deviants praise their

own discords, repeated in a 27

letter alphabet of debt. The depth

of youth’s death signed in blood.

 

Seven digits removed from our

eyes as wealth swells, we’re compelled

to build the echelon opposing our

progression forward. We dream of

a new tomorrow, while today dies,

choked by a future we’ll never

see blossom. Ballots billow in boxes,

casting an ominous shadow whose

origin is the new caste system of

elitism we’re perpetuating into

existence.

 

American mercantilism, the new

pestilence extending the scourge of

plague, backed by minimum wage.

The promise of liberty ushers in

new slaves, working the killing fields,

climbing purple mountains of

depravity. We stand above their

graves; faceless names etched on the

only sign post they ever even

existed, the silence of tombstones.

 

What’s dead is what’s dying.

The spirit of denying what you’re

force fed by indoctrinating bodies

wrapped in radio waves, emanating

from a rotting core; discouraging

individualism for a new form of soul

compartmentalism.

The essence of man marginalized

for the profit of very few, the ones

Lady Liberty may never accuse.

 

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

CdeM’s Poems (48)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Amassing 0
Delicate Demon 0
Inclined to Define 0
Blood Omen 0
Silent Observer 0
Falling Army Men 0
A Mocked Indifference 1
Rigidity US 4
Infrastructur
e
0
A Cynic? Maybe 1
Apparitions 0
A Hush Blushing 0
A Tiller's Son 1
A Rung Above Poverty 0
Sangreal 1
Vague Fatality 3
Empty Rhetoric 5
Immolation 2
Dancing 1
Not For the Apathetic 8
Aristocracy 6
Always Objecting 3
Evolution Involves Evolving 1
Gambling Man 3
Minions 2
Heretical Fingerprints 5
A Prayer From Purgatory 1
Endearing Metaphor 0
A Crown of Royalty 1
Separated Angst 1
Crucible 0
The March 2
Peace As I See It 1
Restless, Voiceless, Spirits 8
"One More Rogue Nation" 1
Roman-iacs 0
Wrong Before One was Right 0
Unchanged, unbiased, and focused 1
My 5
SIfJ 2
Communism 0
Greatest Revolutionary 1
Scholastic 0
Blood Omen 1
How This Works 2
Mutiny or Monotony 1
Revolutiionar
y Theory
0
Seamless 5