Long Hydraulic Poems
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Woozy the witch fuelled up her chrome studded besom
Which was parked in the garage at the Cromlech at noon
She polished dusted and oiled the vintage broom’s motor
And applied magic spittle to fix butterfly wings and a rotor
Filled the hydraulic suspension with liquefied fairy dust
Serviced the turbocharged engine to ensure its robust
To weather belligerent storms and spells of bad nature
She made sure that bristles complied with Wiccan legislature
The Aberystwyth Magician’s Convention had been updated
To secure that tail twigs and seat were unicorn plated
Also that camshaft and pistons were organically manufactured
So when Celtic crosses adorned the chassis it became enraptured
Her lover soul-wizard had called for nocturnal cohabitation
High up in the sky so there was no room for any cunctation
She was the proud owner of a caravan feather duster model
With floor heating and magic carpets for passionate cuddle
They had to be careful though as not to inflate the air cushions
With too speedy pushing and pulling there might be repercussions
Not entirely slowly either because romping in a lay by in standstill
Would get them a parking ticket and the vehicle to go downhill
For that very purpose they had enlisted a strong busy bee elf
So when the chronometer ticked forward and rested on twelve
They came together with the help of sandalwood aphrodisiac potion
Holly jelly completed the feast when they changed tempo and position
The morale of the midnight star spanked romp is easily told
Take care of your vehicle and follow precautions when bold
Life is too short to have interrupted coital climax and pleasure
And thus you must adhere to abracadabra if you treasure your leisure
13th October 2019
All chocolate comes from the cacao trees
They grow best in tropical vicinities.
The tree first grew in Central America
although most of them now grow in Africa.
A portion of them also comes from Asia.
Equatorial climate proves most ideal,
so the tree has plenty of pods to reveal.
The pods on the trees contain many small beans.
These beans have to dry by the usual means.
They have to spend many hours in the sun
before any further processing is done.
Once dry, they are processed with fermentation.
They get chocolate liquor through extraction.
The beans have to be shipped to facilities
where they are scoured for all impurities.
The brown dried beans are then roasted for some time;
long enough to bring out flavor that’s sublime.
Further along in this commonplace process,
butter is extracted by hydraulic press.
They add alkali and emulsifier,
along with sugar and vanilla flavor,
to a thick consistency that would favor
pressing into molds that are briskly shaken.
Air bubbles escape; solid bars are taken
to another room for wrapping and packing.
Finished products are ready for marketing.
Written By: D. Collins 12/6/23
Get up under your woman like she's under attack.
Get under her breasts like a hydraulic jack.
Raise them up to the highest peak they've ever seen.
Then, enjoy her expression as she suddenly creams.
Allow her to catch her breath, then do it again.
After that, slightly, slowly kind of stick it in.
It's like making Gumbo very hot when served.
Yet, filled with a perfect blend of spice and herbs.
Then, get real Creole and start making it burn.
Put cayenne in it to make it throb and yearn.
Inflame that woman and bring her to her hottest.
Get up under her as subjects do for a Goddess.
My travelling shoes
got up early,
they had hydraulic jump-starts.
Countries spun my head around
while I discovered lands
only Albatross dream of
in a limitless sky.
Across many countries
I loop-di-looped,
crop-seeding my
ever seeking mind.
The trips and treks
trudged to a stop
in the late middle ages
of my historically mobile plod.
Now the world comes to me,
to reveal all I missed.
The nooks and crannies
of distant plateaus and valleys,
stones left un-turned,
faces posted from places
once so sea-sealed
or landlocked,
only the address-less
could find them now.
Everywhere comes to my door
entering announced
by wind-blown Tibetan cloud horns.
I open a carriage window
in a train of thoughts
and let that 3-D atlas
of all that was overlooked
chug on by,
watching from my roost
and long anticipated
nest of rest.
Encroaching night's slumber christened by shadowy blight
An endless fringe of melancholy shutters availing light
A cloudy fondue spills over the eery slight
A cold, transient wind doth the conscious plateau spite
Sliding from the precipice of awareness on ethereal kite
Descending into a listless valley; a barren, lonely respite
Slipping, the cranial cavity shakes with trembling fright
Each, guttural rivulet damming; the hydraulic ducts close tight
A silent echo doth a dolesome requiem incite
Anon, a rumbling tremor doth the last sound waves ignite
Then into the foggy abyss, truant soul takes flight
Leaving stilled-life form with no keen insight
Left rotting on the doting canvas floor waiting for nature to requite
On a new land of reason, we number rivers and trees, organise wheat and barley in straight lines, – to call it a Progress.
Here, the Modern Prometheus stitches organs into circuits and Orders the manufactured being– Rise! It opens its algorithmic eyes and questions, ‘Am I your Adam or your half-baked desire to become God?’
In laboratories as dazzle as the Sun, we pour our future in glass beakers, and engineer Louise Joy Browns. “History is more or less bunk” Woods are mere tourist sights and garbage cans, Nanda Devi is impregnated with Plutonium-238.
The nature still welcomes all. Soil breathes through the concrete, Rhizomes entangle the cryptic pipelines, Rivers murmur against the hydraulic roar.
But we stroll through augmented valleys, where Nightingales sing in chorus, Tigers walk through the engineered corridors, Human lenses rectify wilderness, Nothing fails the Script!
Once, a poet urged: “Let nature be your teacher”. We responded with protocols, upgrades and – an Augmented Reality.
And yet –
When the digital sun sets, the gird falls down, and the synthetic Eden collapses, it will not be copper that remembers us. It will be the earth, carrying the Hard Drive of memories, relationships, laughs and tears. The earth will then nourish the seeds in gentle darkness to practice their feral return.
Let the future beat with a silicon heart – but let the woods refuse encoding. Let the AI assist mankind – not supplant human consciousness and emotional intelligence.
For if we encode the entire world to a grammar of circuits, we might perfect its structure, but lose the wilderness that makes us alive.
Lake Léman must float
the weight of the city –
Its grey stolid affluence
needs hydraulic help.
Our paddle steamer chuffs
beyond the tall fountain.
For a while, grand houses
bob beside us.
In Geneva the poor must fit between
the opulence.
Up ahead, Mont Blanc,
and other Wagnerian massifs,
begin to shrink us into fisheyes.
Then sunlight spills its sky
into the deep waters.
Suddenly we are afloat on mountaintops!
I could be almost happy here
if we were not just renting this moment.
When we return to the city
the sky will be gray once more,
the poor will still be poor.
Outside the stylish patisseries,
sparrows will still fight for crumbs.
Redding Poem 1
"Oh Noisy Redding"
There at the Thunderbird Lodge in downtown Redding,
I heard the gods screaming from steel axles with rubber
Claws, scratching the timeless asphalt streets with mayhem.
I heard the sirens from the mysterious distances on Market Street,
As monster machines hovered above with roaring determinations,
And the rumblings of the trucks shook the building I slept within,
Like a raging stampede of stallions, coming through the canyons,
In search of prairie grasses and the sap of a million pine trees.
Oh noisy Redding,
You finally drift to sleep in the late hours,
But your Kansas-like silences seared my soul with your plaintive noises,
Something you could have whispered perhaps, but were not inclined to try.
Then in the wee times at vulgar five o’clock, they come asunder again!
The madness machines with roaring engines about to explode like maniacs
On hyper-drugs, make their appearances with screeching brakes,
And grinding steel nerves and hydraulic sinews made of entwined madness;
And time stops, as we wonder what monster has arisen from its grave.
Oh you, detestable ghoul from the grave, why must you scream?
There at the Thunderbird Lodge in downtown Redding,
Oh noisy restless Redding,
You belch loudly as you drink to the new day, and to the last.
Oh Noisy Redding, your maniac trains rumble and massacre the silence
As your old streets grumble like something wanting to get up and dance,
Shaking old hips, as with the tremors of the deep land, the sacred land.
A SCRAPING OF SHOVELS--
A duel of occupations;
Farming or construction;
2 metal clad tools of uncovering';
Clang N clang, touch rub N bang;
Scape-scape, dig-dig on dirt, sand, gravel and rocks;
A scraping of shovels;
Excavation in construction;
Mechanization via steam shovels;
And later hydraulic equipment;
Hand shoveling dirt onto metal covers;
A scraping of shovels;
Connection tween shoulder blades and digging blades;
That the words also means spatula and spade;
Touch me, touch me metal or bones rocks and gravel;
Rubbing together like a scraping of shovels;
Spades lack triangular points;
But are fairly narrow rub and touch;
Dirt and metal, sand rock and gravel;
"spade" and "scoop” a doop dig a hole;
Coal shovel scooping a scraping of shovels
A snow shovel shoveling snow, a scraping of shovels;
A wide aluminum blade that is attachment;
With a short hardwood handle with "D" top;
A shovel called a barn or grain shovel;
Used for grain" spade" and "scoop” grab and hold;
Rubbing together like a scraping of shovels;
3/3/19
A SCRAPING OF SHOVELS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by:John lawless
Hydraulic system, heart made of pistons
Every co-ordinated mechanical manoeuvre
My heart served to you on a platter, your hors d'oeuvre
I look into your eyes, a deplorable disguise
Retinas of glass, I see right through your lies
Figments of my imagination
Don't come and cause me more vexation
Circling my mind
Tormenting, suffering, sempiternal gyration
My nerve endings started with you
Now unaware to whom
Now that you're gone
I can finally take off this costume
Now isn't the time for salvation
I re-evaluate our amalgamation
Not even an antisocial personality disorder
Could sum up a source of order
Wander your favourite forest
Walk past me and get hit with my poignant odour
Uncover my carcass, I don't need a hearse
Just dump me in the Oder
Dismember me piece by piece
Put me back together however you'd like
The puzzle wont be beautiful
Something incomparable to Vandyke