Fair I Guess

Every hungry Moloch,
Each machine with coalguts
And steampipes for limbs
Follows the instinct to be ravenous.

Ginsberg' s angry angels
And the muse of tragedy that strums that blue guitar
In the painting, in the poem, in my head,
They do what they do.

The villainous instinct, the edible man
Tyrant nature, coquettish time
Are all shaped by the same design
A watch tightly wound,
A psyche unwound
A watchmaker wounded
A psychosis unbound,
A sleeping sickness stretches and yawns
Out the breath of night.

Stuck on like a decal,
A logo for a product I'm not sure I like,
But it's beautiful, it makes sense,
It makes me sick that I can't walk down the street
With a box of popcorn and a bunch of balloons.

It's all fair I guess
Same oranges, same trees in each grove
Same hands to pick them
Same tongues to lap up the juice
Until someone decides
That they're hungry for everyone's fruit.

Reviews

[Mr. Misanthrope]

A beautiful poem in a very original and weird way. The flow is nice and smooth, rather quick, and only goes to show that you are an amazing writer, whose mind pours all of this out without probably even planning it.

A wonderful read! I look forward to reviewing more of your work.

Luke

[holly]

I very much liked your reference to Moloch and then your description of how that 'demon' works in the world. The last stanza and last line brought the message home. "Tyrant nature, coquettish time" is a fine conjunction of words describing the semi-helplessness we carry in our lives. Nicely done.

[Ananke]

I really liked this!!!