Best Mechanized Poems
“Here lieth baby Rachel
Born 10th Sept 1894 Died 30th Oct 1896”
Marble stone that lays above the head,
white chippings that blanket the body,
flowerless vase that sits naked
crying out for a fragrant moment
if only to perfume its stagnancy.
I see an odorous pool being replenished,
rain drops aiding hope and life,
a renewal to the neoclassical container
that one day must have been complemented
with loving hands of grief.
I find no track to this lonely corner,
forgotten in this living place of death!
No visitor to gaze upon its epitaph
no one to care “Whom here lieth”
Beneath this broken monument.
“Velvet skin that the cruel age turns to husks,
naked bones left to mature the grass above,
weeping willow guardian of shade and light,
Who! Knows what nourishment
its searching tentacles beget.”
“Corpus soul aimlessly floating in limbo,
looking at me here this very minute?
Feeling my sensitivity as I stand here, alone,
Is there no escape for anyone?
‘Unless life is indeed the enemy’”
Warped in thought I stare at her monument,
built by caring minds and dexterous hands,
tradesmen whom with spade and chisel
penetrated sculptured within nature
just to honour a child’s brief life on earth.
I walk away along the newly beaten track,
grass and nettle bow before my impending stride,
my mind is wrenched with reverence,
I climb aboard my mechanized shovel
“I wonder why! Why should it bother me so!”
© Harry J Horsman 1992
Why, in a haunted house, do we scream?
We know that the monsters are mechanized.
We know that the bumps are all oversized.
We know things are not what they seem.
Why, in that haunted house, do we chuckle?
We’re bombarded with bright lights, loud screams,
thumps and bumps; we imagine extremes
but know it’s all fake as we grip the belt buckle.
Why, in our own home, when we hear creaking,
don’t we cry or guffaw, but instead
we tiptoe, gasp and believe the undead
and the zombified trespasser come softly sneaking.
Why, when the horror and terror aren’t real,
Do we shriek with delight, while thrilled to the bone?
Why, when we know that we’re really alone,
Are panic and dread the emotions we feel?
The true story of the American west
Is one of killing field slaughters and
waste
The bison killers worked day and night
They were all busier than a kennel full
of dogs in heat
The bison had never seen anything
equaling this
And therefore knew nothing of how to
resist
Their bodies piled up on prairies by the
millions
While human beings continued their
killings
Humans had no thought about an animal's
soul
Mention of such would have laughed them
into a slop bowl
This all points out a basic flaw in the nature
of man
The evidence was there since man's time on
earth began
Animals to Man are just mechanized bodies
of meat and fur
Causing no lapse of conscience for killings
humans incur
But human beings think to improve Mother
Nature's rules
What they forget is this mother suffers no fools
When Man becomes comfortable in his unnatural
habitat
Then mother will send earthquakes and floods to
level Man flat
Looks like dem old ugly chains
got a new modern face
Beauty upgrade ... high-end cosmetic tech;
low-cost dressed in labor modest,
minimum maintentance convenience
From da delta plain sugar cane fields,
to the glamorous Silicon Valley hills:
Ancient bigotry of blood biochemistry
required some thinking ahead
Remove dem outdated iron appendages
from da carbon-based legs
Loose dem fettered bodies from da plantation
That warm-hearted gesture
was prompted by the cold realization
of mechanized industrialization
Machines worked tirelessly better than humans,
with zero margin error for rebellion
From da poppy-white numb cotton field chores,
to the black-site, laboratory rat maze corridors:
Modern slavery has been plastic,
guinea pig perfected;
Darkly spirit heavy iron chains
got replaced by skin light bar codes,
and microscopic nanobyte pain
in the nether layers of the epidermal
From plantation to implantation ...
total body control to full mind control
Invisible chains is a better option
From forced emancipation to voluntary enslavement ...
necessity of convenience shackles the soul
Grateful servitude is a Dead adoption
Go sing illusory freedom, spiritual songs
in an unseen force-field:
Laser etched number scrip plantation
Eat, drink and be merry, ye bonded bones ...
harvest a bountiful yield
Give curses to the marked implantation —
corrupt binary code command subjugation
The Mephistophelean workplace
is a future-now,
internal space Gulag situation ...
an augmented field mule muzzled occupation
With plenty of open-air, coffin acerage:
rows and rows
of furrowed thought manipulation
Dem New Age lobotomy slaves
be toiling on a grave condition plantation,
whose dirt cellular
cubic dimensions are:
Six-by-six-by-six injected damnation
By ten A. M. the presents had all been opened
and breakfast had been served,
But there was still one more tradition of the holiday
that needed to be observed.
Every kid on the block had to meet outside
to see what gifts each one got.
Did they get the bike that they had wanted
did they get the mechanized robot?
What’d ya git? Was the question asked
while trying just to see,
Did they each find their heart’s desire
underneath their Christmas tree?
Tamera got an Easy Bake oven
for Tony a basketball,
Tina got a baby doll that cries
But listen that’s not all.
Matt got a GI Joe with a Jeep
and lots of army stuff,
Then he got an entire Hot Wheels set
and that should be enough.
But then he got a chemistry set
and a radio that runs by transistor,
And that’s not even counting the loot
that Santa brought to his older sister.
Why is it that Santa would bring so much
to the rich kids on the block?
Evidently the redistribution of wealth
was an ideology in which Santa took little stock.
Then we all had to go back inside our homes
because the grandparents were on their way,
But we had already broken the GI Joe
And set his Jeep on fire anyway.
After I read this one I thought that it sounded kind of mean. The names and cases here in this poem are factual. It was Matt's idea to blow up his GI Joe and set fire to his Jeep not ours. Ah, rich kids.
A sudden awakening,
An urgent hand shaking my shoulder,
Through weary eyes I see the valley blackening,
Their steady thunderous march animates river and boulder,
Allowing only a moment's reprieve in the timid morning light,
Somber clouds and solemn faces,
Ashen skies and scarlet fields,
Shattered shields and fractured maces,
Orphaned swords with scarcely an arm to wield,
The shrieking wind rattling through the city wall's carapace,
Echoed by scouts' shrill cries from atop a battered tower's terrace,
Marking the end of the end,
All eyes turn to me,
Warriors and brigands,
Farmers and merchants,
The infirmed and elderly,
Their condolences and pity cannot allay my crippled conscience,
When staring at my daughter's lifeless body,
I ignite her boat and set it adrift,
Trusting that the flames surrounding her will mimic her father's touch,
Silently praying that my own death will arrive as swift,
And let go this life I tenuously clutch,
So that I may rejoin my wife and daughter,
A deafening crack and the gate is cloven,
Their arrows spurn the sun donning the land in a decade's first night,
With mechanized frenzy they swarm the city,
The rational flee while the courageous fight,
I lay down my weapons,
Embracing my family,
As the first spear pierces me.
a walk through the organ pipe
cactus fields along
a contentious boundary
a place called Mexico on one side,
a collection of semi-independent States
on the other
Barrels of water with spigots
preaching survival
placed at intervals by
good samaritans
hoards of armed guards
roving in every mechanized
contraption imaginable
illegal immigrant skeletons
are collected frequently,
four in the last few days
within a ten mile radius of where
I sit, comfortable and secure,
well-coffeed, well-fed and complacent.
What inspires people to attempt
crossing a very hostile environment
with slim chance of survival
to reach a place where folks
seem so unhappy and fearful?
Why are the unhappy and fearful,
extremely blessed, well-coffeed,
well-fed and complacent people
so resistant to helping folks
risking their lives in such a fashion?
How could he be so cold with the raging lightning striking through his aluminum lines?
His synthetic skin made of wax, glass, and fibrous mass has more than an eternity brushed abrasively against my own. His serpentine belt has been felt and wetted with the tip of my carefully budded tongue and my hesitant plush lips. His gear driven hand molds meticulously against the nape of my neck, gently poising his other hand upon my rose-painted cheek. His glowing sapphire eyes imbedding themselves into mine, trying to decode and decrypt when the precise time to close in would be.
He calculates that UNSUPPORTED CODE is the time.
He mechanically cranes his head towards mine, close enough for me to hear the engine purring and revving intensely in his analytical head. His oddly supple lips capture mine before I could have time enough to turn my head in an escape. He skillfully uses my saliva to keep the kisses moist and my intimate desires high. As he wavingly nods his head against mine, his kisses become more and more forceful and passionate. My lips fall in sync with his and, before time can begin to slip by unnoticed, the organic and synthetic weld into one fluid and syncretic being, flowing back and forth in a rhythmic and mechanized pattern, heart and pump beating in pace with a nonexistent metronome.
How can he be so full of sensual emotions when he is satiated with inorganic materials and preprogrammed with impure, yet inventive hands?
Should it really matter what he is, or who my adoration has fallen upon? This age old question of why should cease to be as the answer should simply be to accept destiny in the ever-evolving, shapeshifting world where love can transcend beyond the boundaries of the breathing.
Land of Milk & Honey.
The president has banned the verb “work,” there are no job seekers
or unemployed people, but those who administrate the state are on
duty. Since all is mechanized, digitalized and robotozied there is little
need for citizens to do anything, but receive a monthly card to spend
on food, clothes and other things, and they will be well enumerated.
At last the masses have been set free from the toil of labour.
They can sleep as long as they want, walk in the park or pursue sport,
meet in the evening and read poetry, with the understanding “work”
is not mentioned, ‘cause the state know some poets are insubordinate
and will try to sneak in “work” by calling it something else. If the state
censor find out the writer will be banned from all public gatherings and
not being able to buy yogurt till he repents and writes nice things about
the beautiful colour of plastic flowers, made by a robot called Rose.
It has taken mankind thousands of years to reach this stage of maturity,
and they will look up to the clear blue sky and say: “Truly this is Utopia.”
There are lots of loud noises in Manhattan, you know
And the chaos will follow wherever you go
It's my toughest of tasks just to hear myself think
And it pushes my mind nearly over the brink.
So I sit with my coffee looking over Times Square
As I watch all the people going here, going there
And it's Midnight plus One, or is it maybe plus Two?
As I perch here on high well above all of you.
Many women are pretty and sometimes well-dressed
But the men go for shirts that've never been pressed.
But I can't quite relate to these strangers I see;
They enjoy the big circus out there in 3-D.
But at least I am getting good use of my time
By expressing my thoughts and thus making them rhyme
While way down below, there, the chic fashionistas
Aren't doing much more than taking in vistas
Of super bright signs and the products for sale
That light up the night while they make you look pale.
The air is awash with electrical charge
From billboards that loom and all look very large.
But those mechanized sounds of the traffic outside
Cannot hope to compete with the Muzak inside
This two-tier café on good old Broadway
Where mobs of touristas barge in for a stay.
Well, at least I'm not tortured with Country and Rap
While sitting here dutifully churning out crap;
All those tunes that bombard me are painless to hear,
But I can't say the same for my stanzas, I fear.
Be positive and upbeat
Think of our loves
And also our love ones
Of the things so simple
We just give without any hesitance
And whatever their response
Always believe they too love.
When our goal is a good cause
Learning and doing are services
Mechanized service de luxe
Be sure its been wholeheartedly done
Never think of the negative
For we don’t want our family die
And God knew our intention is sincere.
At the turn of the time at nine last night
Sprawled swimming still with the tide
The wheel against her will in her on pool
The doctor masked with eclecticism of electricity
As Mercy laboured last breath for mechanized exit
Mercy was not killed, it was mercy killing
To spare the tree, spoil the fruits
As advocated so legislated
The doctrine of rightists and leftists
At the top of the hour at nine in the night
Flushed, flowing free down the drain
The flight against her right
The doctor pointed patron’s panacea
For Mercy missed first breath for calculated death
Mercy was not killed, it was mercy killing
To seize the clog, severe the cord
As directed so acted
The song of activists and their likes
Well was it mercy killing
When Mercies were killed
At nine last night?
Awards and Recognition
They patted selves on their very own back;
They do have all things which we will lack;
Am so sore,
We are poor,
Live in towers while we survive in a shack.
Many things medals and awards are about;
Who is the one who can give the most out;
Never sure,
Or can endure;
In whole system we do have much doubt.
People are upset like a boiling over kettle;
May meddle with system regarding medal;
Should correct,
Need for respect,
And this subject we should start to settle.
This could also apply to gerrymandering.
A new battle has become part of the game plan.
Who can give out the most awards and medals?
My company and the commander looks the best
when he gives out the most medals and awards.
Here is what I did so I could make mockery of
the system.
I had prepared my own request for the Army
Commendation Medal for my ownself. We were
in the final formation at Annual Training. The
actual Washington Army National Guard
Adjutant General was giving out awards. He
came up to me and was in the process of giving
me my award. He started reading the narrative.
He was about half the way through with the
narrative. He stopped and with a big smile said
that no one else in the world could have written
and prepared this other than me. The whole
Battalion broke out laughing. That was the most
meaningful experience I ever had in my carreer.
This is all absolutely true and correct. I had been
preparing awards for soldiers for over 20 years,
and this was a reflectiob of it.
James Thomas Horn
Personnel Administrator
Company C 3d Battalion 161st Infantry Mechanized
Washington Army National Guard (WAARNG)
17230 NE 95th
Redmond, WA 98052-3226
It is no longer in existance. WAARNG headquarters
is about three miles away from the AMTRAK Train
crash in Dupont, Washington. This is the longest
entry I have ever made. Characters remaining are
less than 700.
I neither care nor bother about perfection
On all their faces I actually see otherwise
On strange machines I have found myself
Bolts and nuts intertwined in mazes
Detailed guide too long to comprehend
I posses little education to even recite
So we go on trying, guessing and fondling
Hoping the cure will come somehow
Amidst breached procedures and advice
Get the car moving: most essential task
Those unusual sounds I’ve learnt to ignore
Wish it away and it exists no more
Of course, they all must be wary of me or learn
Yet they foolishly follow even when I warn
I know choices are limited and you must come again
I pray you don’t imagine my ability to guess
When you do guess, what can you do?
After all, I am king even when we all blind
Nobody trained me; nobody checks me
I am not different from the president to the councilor
Riding on the crest of power in mediocrity
Years of guessing cannot make perfection
Where excellence belongs only to thieves
Equipped with sophisticated tools not in the books
Dismantling and reassembling chaotically
Translating cries as sounds of excitement
As failed, bungled machines drive governance
Alas I am in stiff context with my Oga at the top
These politicians ridicule my feats
I should vehemently cry for them that trust me
I worry even when I know they should
At least I am better than the men in the corridor
I still posses the capacity to think and trouble
My competitors are better than I can ever be
Here are the French Connection facts,
Monsieurs and Madames
No need for reverse English translation,
Ladies and Gentlemen
Step carefully ...
You’re now at the yellow tape border of
a Jurassic Park murder scene investigation
Here’s robo Rico “Bio-Class II” Suave,
your mechanized splatter sherpa:
A top-of-the-assembly line android crime reporter,
it has a prototype 800 series model retinal recorder
These are a few pertinent French Connection facts ...
fluorescent things for a conviction cell door slam,
Monsieurs and Madames
Notice the warm, bloody prints on the cold asphalt trail,
leading to a secure concrete jungle tree blind,
fifty meters above the dead calcium sight line
Observe the unusual iron-copper “W” shape tracks,
they do hemoglobin reveal
the rapacious perpetrator of the deadly, fatal attack
As duly noted before,
these are merely the empirical French Connection facts,
Madames and Monsieurs
This plaster cast peculiar evidence,
appears to likely be triple talon execution,
with brutal efficiency,
precision dispensed
Initial logical deduction would seem to suggest,
a drug deal heist,
driven by greed seduction: a reptilian motive at best
These inventoried forensic items
are evidentiary necessary French Connection facts,
sleuth Monsieurs and Madames
Crime scene lab post-mortem conclusion:
It can only candor support the microscopic proof
from this UV, morgue ID morbid intrusion
The deceased fell victim to Velociraptor wrath —
a crafty, killing machine rage
Only one question still loom blot large,
to solve the case ... turn the page
What dopefiend
opened this beast’s covetous cage,
letting V-death run amok on a murderous path?