Long Industrial Poems
Long Industrial Poems. Below are the most popular long Industrial by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Industrial poems by poem length and keyword.
Good morning,
Gibbers And Watts how may I help you today?
Yes Sir I can help you with that.
Have you had any thoughts on how you would like to be killed?
Ok yes so like an accident?
We do have a couple of offers on at the moment.
We can do an industrial accident with a mention on the six o'clock news, or for slightly more money we can murder you with a full reconstruction on prime time television and a feature on the news.
Yes Sir, we have a full range of ways we can kill you and all at competitive prices.
Certainly, I can send you a brochure and then you can talk to one of our advisors.
Can I take your name and address and I will send a brochure out to you…
Thank you for calling, enjoy the rest of your day.
Good Morning,
Gibbers And Watts how may I help you today?
Hidden under crop circle
resembling an ampersand
hides sheathed silo - obscured,
said symbol adorned every armband
of national socialist, yet weapons
of mass destruction) bland
lee, blatantly ignored global pact
prepared from this once (bajillion
years ago) geologic bottomland
repurposed for a bomb bin able
(made in good ole US of A) brand
to release payload
upon given command
i.e. at moments notice,
the notorious brigand
usurped entire communications broadband
to stow and let loose by,
thee once upon a time pokey cowhand,
now chief of state tyrant,
sans military industrial complex edifice
where deadly warheads demand
did and trumpeted by "FAKE EVIL"
apprentice madly (ad libbing)
gesticulating, & expostulating to DISBAND
at once - to no effect
falling on deaf ears
as Doomsday Clock rhythmically
minutely gourmandises
cannibalizing entire webbed
world, whose former slender
(now stubby) baby grand
piano playing butter fingers
primed to press miniature
Taj Mahal shaped hand,...
(now a pause for infowars
commercial identification about Homeland
security threatened by migrant husband
and wife, especially terror unleashed
from baby, whose hood
loom doth not expand
much taller than kickstand),
Regular noteworthy poetic program resumes:
...but biological chattering multiplicand
the fiercest most critical operand
linkedin with scheme
asper deadly retaliatory reprimand
against leader of free world,
a hot headed note tory us
donning wig by handmaiden Shetland
knitwear, which Total Mortal Kombat
every man, woman and will soon understand!
KA-BOOM! Into a bajillion
(to the power of Googleplex)
goes civilization and discontents,
and since World War II
accursed with self destructive hex
hmm...mebbe terrestrial for
another species similar to T-Rex.
avast extent of following poem
crafted a couple plus years ago,
when foretaste of temperate weather
covered swath of eastern seaboard.
Courtesy climate change
(think global warming),
I would never wish to exchange
unseasonably warm temperature
(eighteen plus degrees celsius
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania)
meaning way out of expected range,
cuz far to balmy, undoubtedly
with old man winter furious
his blizzard snowbound
weather forecasts shortchanged.
Once thermometer readings rise
even smidgen one moost not minimize
Earth way out of balance,
an inconvenient truth
I haint gonna catastrophize
as bajillion acres plus
one after another ocean dries
even the skeptic cannot turn
blind eye and believe contrary lies
when every species practically extinct
and self proclaimed éminence grise
doth trumpet and stubbornly tries
to claim plethora unearthed resources
as sudden goldmine
against wages of sin
former traitor joe
(biden his time) redeemers actualize
to catalyze nth industrial revolution
teaching as heresy
ecocentric, which material basket
of deplorables power mongers bowdlerize
concurrence toward meteorological
trend most all people agree
toward adapting, experiencing,
and witnessing increase -
fair in height degree
bestowed upon Thomas Newcomen,
Richard Arkwright, Samuel Crompton,
Edmund Cartwright
and James Watt first Industrial
Revolution conferred as honoree
appellation not necessarily
in retrospect donned as noble pedigree,
now hundred of years
later downside we see
of belching, coughing,
disorging... yes siree
foul, (née deadly)
cancerous, gaseous, noxious... pollutants.
As this century comes to an end
There’ll be no cash left to spend
All economic systems would crash
Wild fires will reduce forests to ash
With mineral resources finished
Industrial output will be diminished
Cities will choke with greenhouse gases
Life will be unbearable for the masses
People will flock to countryside to breathe air
Alas! It’s so polluted they cannot dare
Fruits and vegetables will have a bitter taste
A thin layer of pollutants serving as a paste
The sun will be seen through a haze
Visibility will be poor on all days
The moon will not give enough light
For lovers to share a romantic night
There will be a scarcity of water
The earth will become hotter and hotter
Animals, birds and the poor will perish
The rich will go to a planet they cherish
The colorful earth with its fauna and flora
Will float in space with a ghostly aura
A dead planet with no life on board
It’s a situation which we cannot afford!
END
Industrial decline
There were few oak trees left in the valley
they had been chopped down and used in the clog industry,
ash trees were tried to make clogs, but it gave
people foot disease, which manifested itself by causing
webbed feet; excellent for swimming but not for walking.
The Birch was tried, but workers refused to work with this type
of the tree, the clog industry went bankrupt as more and more
people preferred tennis shoes with a posh label.
The valley declined they went to Lisbon to find work and some
studied, became doctors and politicians, one can be both.
It was a Paradise for the donkeys that roamed free from the harness
and the pulling of a plough.
I'm visiting the ailing and confined
in a grey industrial town.
The elderly, the bed ridden,
the halt and the lame,
all high on my list.
A hard sleet drives
needles into my skin as I duck my neck
inside my coat collar
then rap on the paint peeled door.
No answer, wait shivering in the cold.
Silence.
Tricky. Should I enter,
call the police, call for a help?
The doorknob turns easily in my cold hand.
There she is; back bedroom,
bundled under dirty sheets.
The smell of decay is overpowering.
I don't want to do what I must do,
cold reluctant fingers pluck the sheets away.
The corpse is maybe five days old or more.
I need to vomit,
the dark brew I drank last night
rises as a burning in my throat.
This is my calling, this unwrapping of death,
and not the first or the last cadaver I shall uncover.
Once more I wonder just who appointed me
to be an Angel of Death in this world?
Too late I remember I have surgical gloves
in my bag, anyway,
nothing anyone can do for her now.
I hope the dead help me live with their burden
for a little while yet,
for I am sick of God and his party tricks.
Sunday, June twentieth
thousand nineteen at eleven fifty
at 11:31 Post Meridian
Eastern Standard Time
will find Earth's North Pole tilted
closest toward sun. This demarcates
most daylight hours of the year for
people living the northern hemisphere.
Just shy of high noon sun (less than
twelve hours from drafting these lines)
nearest star in solar system reaches
highest point in the sky.
Hence hasty intent to beat buzzer sound
dashing off riding figurative one seahorse
open sleigh madly awk cross cyber sea,
aye rudder sally forth (slogging thru
virtual flotsam and jetsam) with poetic
obeisance paid to average size ball of
Earth, wind and fire, my out of this
world quasi stellar benediction, since
Earthlings traveled thru space/time
continuum circa Stonehenge, or perhaps
bajillion years ago, when predecessors
of present day primates (coon sitter terribly
less a bomb bin hubble), versus twenty first
century *****sapiens predilection for total
mortal kombat graphically spiraling downward
zeroing (kamikaze like), analogy drawn,
viz subjective mathematical roulette curves,
albeit hypotrochoids and epitrochoids staining
countless grains of sand, count them yourself,
yielding result (somewhere very loosely
approximating 7.5 x 1018, or seven quintillion,
five hundred quadrillion grains.
Such minutiae less significant within the realm
of present day *****sapiens, whose lives less
linkedin with phenomena affecting life on this
oblate spheroid, (which could come to a crashing
halt predicated on burgeoning human population
jeopardizing sustainable planet presuming
industrial paradigm prevails, thence man/
woman kind will unwittingly trumpet, and
or sound claxon (ex post facto), while
warming temperatures melt glaciers,
asper huge popsicles drowning
multitudinous habitats courtesy of
violent meteorologic cataclysms, where
Noah ark will be big enough to save majority
of creatures, and (wherein no art of the deal)
savvy enough to wall off sky high tidal
Katrina and the waves, then nature will (make
a killing) relishing tidying Atlas sized tureen
She is sitting,
front legs under her reddish-brown mass.
When I think of her shape
it is always her belly I see most.
The bulging warmth,
the mastication, her on-going digestion.
I'm a boy,
the large cow is my meaty lean-to.
One hot summer afternoon can last for years,
on one such a year
I was resting my back
on her bovine flank's, she did not seem to care.
I really think she wanted to feel me listening
to her giant belly.
A drowsy time took its rest also.
Bees buzzed, but far away.
High flying gees made the sky speak.
Listening to her massive body, I think
I melded into her life. Her ongoing
industrial mashing
of moist clods of vegetable materiel.
The rhythmic digestive process
seemed to me to be almost musical.
When she farted, it was as though
she had turned roughage to water,
and water into wine.
I could smell the spirit of the grass,
and strangely,
I could within my own small form,
feel the mutable mystery of the land
as it churned grain into bread,
our meat to spirit.
In light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs
ping under the rising heat of the sun.
Sounds of tin stretched into rhythm.
He tumbles out of a fuzzy dream
tramples over himself, sucks in
half-digested thoughts.
Morning on the edge
of a medium-sized mid-west city,
Mourning doves throttle a coo or two.
This late chiming morn,
he shares a first-rate breakfast tea
with the chug and chur
of a de-frosting fridge
wallows awhile in flabby abstractions.
Minor keys ding aluminum sidings,
gradually low-grade whispers
stutter into words, a kind of poem
he can almost hear.
They laid and built a new road;
in the heat of the day it looks
like a stretched curved spine
along which newly planted trees
grow their skimpy wishbones
as they file along the verge.
There is no shade to be had
just the thin oatmeal stalks of the trees,
their skinless stiff shadows
penciling in a marching sun
as it carves out graphite periods.
Somebody thought to put a fountain
in a bald space by the road
close to a beige housing lots.
Each new home is tantamount to the other.
Apparently beige will not offend
the eyes of any colorblind buyer.
It’s not a good fountain, not decorative,
it’s the kind of fountain to be found
fronting small industrial units;
the bone road circles it,
as if those who walk its arid path
will pause to admire the utilitarian art,
the listless spray of water.
In the heat of the day
it looks like a burst fire hydrant,
the sun does not paint it,
for the font is too sterile to reflect
any kind of rainbow illusion.
A little further on, the road
pauses to die next to some hardscrabble.
At roads end there is a scattering
of broken and splintered bones,
concreted residuals
of the suns dominion.
There is only one route home now,
back along the lane
to the head of the spine
where the colors of the world
were abandoned for the bland tones
of white and beige.