Best Production Line Poems
My dream car is known to be one of muscle,
which can quickly get up and hustle.
The year would have to be nineteen hundred and Sixty nine,
best year of Camaro to come off the production line.
Orange in color with white racing stripes that line the hood,
along with new aluminum rims would be good.
Its engine would be a three twenty seven,
bearing a Holley Carb would be heaven.
To take it out on the road for a test,
assuredly it would be the best.
I would wash and wax it night and day,
in the garage is where it would stay.
Oh how that would be the car for me,
unfortunately one I’ll never see.
We all stopped looking to the sky.
Unable to look in our own mind's eye.
So caught in all the distraction,
We make ourselves unable to imagine.
You make your T.V. remote more important than the song you wrote.
You look at the clock to check the time,
But then Netflix says "No you are mine."
But why?
I would rather die,
Than to stop myself from living,
From the media making a killing.
Giving you all their propaganda,
In their new episode of Hannah Montana.
We use our cellphones to connect,
But are more separate last time I checked.
Kids at the age of six,
On their phones like they're on rocket ships.
Waiting for the new Call of Duty 6.
Now throw Xbox One in the mix.
How can you not care?
That your kid does not scare,
When he sees a guy with a gun,
And a victim unable to run.
This kid is blind!
From the media taking over his mind.
But I digress,
Technology is a mess.
Expanding our universe but limiting our minds,
To the people we were before we spoke lines.
Family dinners are now family Words with Friends winners.
Unable to have a conversation without a phone for liberation.
We are trapped!
In a world made for progress in fact.
Then why doesn't Congress just act?
For the place where society does lack...
Connection.
We are all connected but you don't see,
Because technology has taken your liberty.
Taken your sight from out of your mind,
And put it on the IPhone 5 production line.
We all have something in common,
Something we can't share in a com-link.
We are human!
And as a matter of fact,
Humanity on it's own does not lack.
We the people have the power,
To travel across the globe in just hours.
So please don't misunderstand,
Technology is good in one hand.
But in the other we need to be free,
So we can be connected in liberty.
ON BEING A SAUSAGE ROLL
Our other sausage acquaintances are real –
Flavoured, pigmented, heated
By boiling or frying :
They have their dignity, though they too be eated.
Our natural features, our inner glories,
Are pastry-coated and abide
In small bags from ye take-away,
All similar and eaten cold outside.
Or at best saucered and microwaved
With ketchup to add insults :
Not only hidden under pastry,
Yea also ‘neath red chemical lab results.
Never are we savoured like frankfurters
Or slowly chewed like wurst.
We are hurriedly snapped up like cakes and ale
By a fat eater ready to burst
In a line of crawling traffic,
Or in a static bus queue.
Inside an expanding waistline - Zwounds
Ye fat paunch - with no limit in view.
But soft! Life on the savoury pastry shelf
Is a production line existence - not a role.
Oh, to shuffle off this pastry coil -
I’m just another sausage roll.
.................................
Oh! How I long for that
one sweet moment of
loneliness, when the human race
decides to piss off, leaving me
to wallow in my own
company.
The pressurized world,
the ceremonious
corporate reciprocates, one’s
space to foul, with flouting
flagrant farts! Creating
thunderous turmoil, a
chaotic state of mind,
a wind of prevalent
change.
Innocent minds, virgin thoughts
collective breeding grounds,
stage upon stage, the master’s philosophy to
be acted out. His! To
nurture, to alter, personalities
to change, ideals to strive
for, directions to enforce.
The
new breed, created from
the production line of
progression, cantankerous wankers! Mountaineers
all. “No strings” Yet each one
a “Puppet” To the regime, each
one skilled in the art of
deceit, degrees in codhology, all
willing to sell their soul
to the executive.
“Interaction Management” The
suave enemy. “Believe it”
At one’s peril,
“The flattery
the empathy
the confidence”
Seek out! The expression
behind the expression.
If not! “One will love it”
Hook line and sinker, caught
in a web of verbal
trash, dressed up in treachery.
Soon
the moralist to become ridiculed,
their dispute subjected
to “Reductio ad absurdum” Yet
their accuser dances
amongst the clouds, eyes forever
searching skywards, the social
divorce permanent.
Who!
Are these arrogant ones,
those reared in such cynical ways,
their curriculum brimming with
intellect, yet without
the power to reason,
only the power to perform!
The forked tongue, the worthless hand shake
at Christmas time, the insincere
parody that floats across the
pay table.
Many years
I have given myself
to this crap, and here are
these bastards, having us
all feel grateful, for the
“Privilege
of
employment.”
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Glistening throngs walk in detached cadence
Sweating long necks on a production line
Along the boardwalk
Pungent saltwater and fried dough drifts
Ocean meets country fair
Constant clamor of teen and seagull
A multitude of color variation
Red to black
Whiffs of Coppertone and Noxzema
To ease the pain of the vain and pale
Summer at Happy Hampton Beach
Arcade upon arcade
Clinking bells and whirly sounds
“You’re a Winner!” it screams
And then we are gone, until next year
i dont memorize poems i experience them.
so im not impressed by your ability to regurgitate then
because NOW is the moment that we are inspired
through inspiration by the power thats considered much higher
now impressive you are to the masses that attend
but to a true poet like myself you do nothing but offend
you spew phrases and thoughts like a production line machine
artificial intelligence, a robot! a predicated line of memes
you see nothing wrong with putting on a facade for your fans
however i find it kind of odd how you let worms crawl out your can
you imprison inspiration in the psyche of your mind
throw away the key and call for father time
you have no respect for thoughts and the spark within the mind
regret is all that is brought to the consciousness of humankind
there's no connect the dots when you're indoctrinated by the lie
but i know a thickened plot by the look in your eye
im the old school mind and thoughts of inspiration at its best
when poetry came from consciousness not a heaping pile mess
Ladies sitting on a bus with nothing much to discuss
Just the daughter’s wedding and the fuss
As another passenger gets on the bus
The sales are on “jeans and tops” she declares
Now she really got a bargain there
Idle chatter without any meaning
While I sit on the bus idly dreaming
The faces telling so many tales
For the working man there are no cocktails
There isn’t a stretch limo for the poor
Or even a taxi that’s for sure
People like the bus on a roundabout
Accepting not protesting with a shout
Being jostled and pushed by the crowd
Like automatons nothing proud
Accepting mediocrity like a shroud
A pimply young youth out for a lark
A man who for forty years has been a clerk
Both chatting together looking at an advert
Exciting young escorts for the convert
A child tries to sneak on for free
The driver on the lookout uniformed tyranny
A cashier from Woolies, who’s name is Shirl
Her companion trying to give her a whirl
Two excited students chatting in Chinese
As the driver says ‘Lady pay your fare please”
The woman embarrassed shows her pension card
That’s all she gets for working so hard
On the production line in the factory at Pritchard
The old drunk with sacred flask in pocket
When emptied, his courage soars like a rocket
The Greek on his way to his second job
The giggling girl and her latest heart throb
A constant blur of humanity filing in and out
Never the rich or the ones with clout
Just the deprived the old and the thrifty
Over the years a sea of ever changing faces
Heading for work, shopping, footie or the races
Humanity squeezed into a fourteen ton carriage
Jostled and bumped in a never ending marriage.
Leap Of Fatal Faith
Another battle fought and the shops are empty
Easter Bunnies in the production line can’t wait
I need money and lots of it for next year’s round
I hereby patent my golden turkey for survival
Little chocolate tank tracks and marzipan bullets
Cream covered shrapnel and gingerbread limbs
Toffee filled bomb shells nougat for camouflage
Sugar iced tent cities and plenty of tin soldiers
Refugees bubble gum boats standing no chance
Wars are for life and not a mess just for Christmas
With my bank account swelling there must be some
Sense in the day after Christmas so jump jubilate
Celebrate at your fatal peril and my sweet surprise
Working 9 to 5
The constant rumble of the fans above my head,
That cool me down, so I don't feel too tired.
The crashing bangs, of heavy metal things,
As the machines continue to work,
To produce metal sheets.
The thunderous press machine,
Thumps another piece of metal,
As the production line keeps moving,
Full of different people.
Each of them standing, in their own specific spot;
Capable of breaking the chain,
If one of them is gone.
So just hang your metal onto the track;
The thing that made me quit before, but I came back.
And now here I am, stronger and wiser,
Better than before;
Now they've offered me the job full time.
But I know, I can do better than this,
For I wish to be a poet, an author and a lyricist.
I just keep looking at the clock,
Waiting for another minute to pass.
Damn! I'm sure it's stopped;
I've surely been here longer than that.
No; it's just because,
I'm not using my head
And thinking to make time pass quicker
And not just waiting for it to be 10.
At last! It's here, we all give a silent cheer,
Or a sigh of relief, that the day is done.
At last, now we can all go home.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Luscious Sausages Anyone
This early morning, I've viewed a most interesting video clip...
About how tongue licking tasty sausages are produced in the pink...
The latter half of the clip shows a very highly hygienic mechanical production line...
Complete with human handlers plastic suited, in face masks and with gloved hands...
It portrayed a super duper mass production environment......,
All clean and hygenic, all spick and spank, methodical and efficient...
You get to see fast producing lines of long strips of pinkish sausages...
It shows the stringent standards applied to have sausages properly sized and shaped...
There is both a human and a mechanical process to select only the best sausages...
Before they are packaged and stamped, presumably to be marketed thence...
Make no mistake, the production of sausages, a staple diet of the Caucasians...
Is undoubtedly undertaken by food manufacturers who adhere to the highest standards...
On hygiene, safety and countless other recommendations that meet all the existing food regulations...
After all, sausages are such a part and parcel of the fast food segments for generations...
But...
But people, if you watch closely the initial part of the video clip...
On how the tractor trough get ready all the processed meat...
Brother, be warned! You will be so disgusted that you may want to puke...
Seeing this clip, I can't help but feel extremely relieved....
For such a processed meat, be it sausages or burger patties or whatever you call it...
Does not featured on a regular basis in my family diet...
Now it is crystal clear why processed meat are are deemed extremely unhealthy...
Watch this clip and discover yourself why processed meat is so tasty yet unhealthy...
Sausages, pink and delicious, hot dogs and hamburgers, anyone?
@@ NOTE... a video clip on the production of sausages ,
from churned carcasses to packaged sausages...
Should be on the internet, look up on it and be educated...
Baptized in the Jordan
The preacher announced on the bus:
"We are heading to the Jordan river,
those wishing to be baptized
will get their chance."
Thoughts of being dunked
in the same water
as the real Jesus.
That appealed to me.
Visions of a wilderness
river,
just like in those bible times.
Taking my cloak off,
wading into the muddy Jordan.
John the baptizer himself,
doing the honors.
Dropping me backwards,
dying my old sins,
raising me to a new life.
Coming out to the sound:
"This is my son,
in whom I am well pleased."
That appealed to me.
We got off the bus.
The wilderness was not
all that wild.
The Jordan had been turned into
"Baptisms are us."
Complete with deli and gift shop.
Apparently six other buses
also had been led by the spirit.
Our spirit's time was
between 4:00 and 4:30.
Ten dollars got you a towel
and a white sterile pullover,
barely long enough to cover
your glad tidings.
Lockers and showers were optional.
Our group was in zone 4.
Who knew rivers had zones.
As one of a hundred white
clothed sheep, I felt like
the newest member of a cult,
like the Hari Krishnas,
but without the fancy haitcuts.
We were herded down concrete steps
that led to the river.
The Jordan was cold.
Baptizers were in the water,
ready to go.
Henry Ford would have been proud
of that production line.
Baptizing had never
been more efficient.
Two every ninety seconds,
like pistons, up and down.
When it came time for me,
I didn't get a "Thank you Jesus"
out before I was whipped around
and plunged beneath the crimson flood.
I almost got whiplash.
I dripped back to the locker,
glad tidings and all.
I think I was baptizee #41.
For five bucks,
you can get
a DVD of your sacred event.
I bought ten,
they oughta make
great Christmas presents.
I went through the gift shop.
I bought a set of John the Baptist
steak knives,
Virgin Mary placemats,
and a couple of Holy Ghost
candle sticks.
As I got back on the bus,
I thought how far we've come
in 2,000 yrs.
We've made God's job so much easier,
assembly line salvation and baptism,
with steak knives thrown in.
Would Jesus be proud?
That did not appeal to me.
9.7.17.
Empty boyhood’s piercing treasure,
Gaping wound flows without measure~
Fatherless well deep, dank and musty,
Mother’s love so stained and dusty~
Enlightenment seems to be the goal,
redemption's lie to kill the soul~
Mind's graveyard filled with spiritual glory,
yet buried below a shameful story~
Sick secrets locked in countless rooms,
descend in fear, subconscious tombs~
Gold plated terror, worn by time,
Hidden from light to hide the crime~
Oceans of tears to deep to sail,
become the gull, to no avail~
Useless life lay in the ashes,
Mother board blown, system crashes~
Misguided by Men who've lost their thrones,
society’s production line, mindless drones~
The blood dance done, the scepter broken,
whispers heard, dark lies are spoken~
Who then will ascend yon highest tower,
to claim the throne and sword of power?
Who then will feel the power this brings,
no throne, no sword, and no more kings~
Copyright © Satprem 2015
Written at age 14 ~
Edited a few times~
(The modern way to take the credit for someone else’s ideas)
Innocent minds, virgin thoughts
all within a collective
breeding ground,
stage upon stage
the master’s philosophy to
be acted out. His! To
nurture, to alter, to steal,
personalities
to change, ideas to strive
for, directions to enforce.
This by the
new breed, created from
the production line of progression.
Those the arrogant ones,
reared in such cynical ways,
their curriculum brimming with
intellect, yet without
the power to reason.
Those blessed
with the forked tongue,
the worthless hand shake,
the insincere parody
that lingers within
the web of verbal trash.
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Mother! you weep for your son, and another son
and yet another son! Fodder to the misshapen morals of this world! Shot in cold blood! Again and again! Each bullet screaming out the rage of hatred!
What God would train a piece of metal that way? Hear those voices singing hymns of some unseen spiritual head! The rattle of words that become rattle of guns! this battle ground was once the land of the cultured, the civilised! Cradles harboured love, schools values, and life was a journey of joy!
Oh! mother who has made your womb a production line of such despondency?
Every child born is a victim of savagery! Savage who pulls the trigger or the victim at the end of the nozzle are both from a mother’s womb!
Mother! Who do you pray to for justice? Your religion has been marketed and sold too! Tall architectures that speak of God, let loose on us the designs of the devil!
Where do we run and hide mother?
If only you all had the powers to refuse to lend your flesh and blood to be made victims of this insane land!
Oh, Mother! Let us all start afresh! Let us create a world, where every child born can be shown love and be taught that this human land was designed for peace and happiness!
Oh, Mothers of this world, it is time to stop your flood of tears! Only mothers know the heartbreak of a lost child!
Every tomb harbours tears that was once a reason of joy when in the womb!
The world watches silently as the injustices continue unabated! Yet we have faith in the power of mothers! In your purity of love that only your heart can generate, that may one day make us all realise that we are all children of the same mother. Mother, you are nature, and Nature is Mother!
There is no doubt that man has progressed far beyond his worth
The human race has earned its place upon this planet Earth
But think on this – one architect above us standing tall
Accomplished in a heartbeat something greater than them all
Your body is the product of intelligent design
Far greater than the robots on the car production line
No need for slide rules, formulas, computer buffs or pi
‘twas fashioned from the dust within the twinkling of an eye
Did you know, for example all your blood vessels unfurled
Would stretch 100,000 miles – that’s four times round the world
Each single step you take today to hold your bodyweight
Employs 200 muscles just to keep you standing straight
Your skeleton is fragile and a break takes time to heal
But pound for pound your bones are stronger than the toughest steel
The colours of the rainbow – one of natures greatest views
Yet the human eye can recognise ten million separate hues
Annoyed when you forget stuff but no wonder it’s a pain
There’s a million billion bits of info stored inside your brain
So, music calms the savage breast, no doubt you’ve heard it too
But your heartbeat synchronizes with the tune you’re listening to
You’re smelling something iffy, have you brought deodorant
To your nose, no sweat, It’s one of over fifty thousand scents
Your DNA coiled tight within the confines of your frame
Unfurled; ten billion miles to Pluto ( and back home again )
Your heart will pump 360 million pints of blood
And drive a truck for 20 miles with energy it’s stored
The average camera has 5 megapixels so we’re told
the human eye outstrips it by at least a hundredfold
Your atom count alone should cause your knees to bow and bend
An Octillion has more than 20 zeroes at the end
So whilst we should be proud of what we’ve managed to achieve
And Moore’s Law will continue to inform us, I believe
Your body is the greatest work of art you’ll ever see
Thanks be to God for choosing to create humanity.