Long Plutonium Poems
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Just one election cycle ago
Those without masks were scorned
Bullied out of churches and stores
Now it's the other way around,
(sneetches with stars-sneetches without)
They've really got the masses scrambling
dividing us by
skin tone
a bug
chromosomes
a wall of fear,
Division is becoming a chasm
deep and wide
no climbing out
except on the broken neck of Christ.
My- my, how easy it was to control the masses
without firing a shot,
With a blood-red flag and yellow stars
pocked with microscopic bugs,
Nights of broken glass and burning books all over again.
Those with stars, those without.
In case you haven't noticed, our division is their strength.
Our chains are their liberation.
We, the sheep, have surrounded ourselves with ourselves.
The red wolf is picking us off one by one.
Our blood on their plutonium muzzles.
Maybe the antidote IS a semi-automatic
brimming with a hollow-tipped Christ.
Freedom was never for free
Those with stars-those without.
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For a science fair in high school when I was a freshman,
I constructed what could have become an atomic bomb,
the only missing ingredient was plutonium.
"I made this," I said to everybody,
"I constructed this device very easily.
Imagine the potential of someone much more educated than me,
but take that a step further, imagine if they were angry."
I dropped out of high school thereafter shortly,
and graduated from The University of The State of NY with a GED.
Oh, and my science project was seized by my local police.
No charges were filed against yours truly,
but I left both the police and all at the science fair in a state of disbelief,
and needless to say, my parents grounded me.
The roaches keep launching attacks.
Then scurrying back into Satan's dirty crack.
Covering their backs with the children of Gaza.
Launch, then hide- launch, then hide.
When they lose ground, they call for a ceasefire.
Understand, there can never be peace.
As long as these hellhounds are off their leash.
Nobody in these three-ringed regimes mentions the hostages anymore.
Nobody remembers October 7
or September 11
let alone the holocaust.
Short-term memory problems for those with long-term limits.
Nobody dares to put the bullseye on Iran.
Who has the real blood on their hands.
Billions of U.S. dollars fund the attacks of these ogres.
Whose soul do they own, just asking for a friend?
Get their undivided attention.
Lay waste to the Persian oilfields.
Parch their treasure chests.
Maybe then peace can prevail.
Then the Bedouins of heaven and the children of Christ can rest.
Until then, I think we're heading down the plutonium throat of Armageddon.
Plutonium ensures growth.
More Plutonium, more growths.
Fewer bombs increase the risk of unemployment.
More bombs increase the risk of employment.
Bombs for peace.
More bombs, more pieces.
Bombs to profit this nation.
More bombs, more profits.
Bombs bring potential enemies to the table.
More bombs, more potential enemies, more tables.
Bombs deter enemies from using bombs against us.
More bombs deter more enemies from using more bombs against us.
Bombs aid the construction industry.
More bombs, more constructions.
Funny, when I was a little boy, I thought
All bombs could do was explode.
How Far We’ve Come
Back in the Dark Ages with their lack of drains,
hygiene, refuse disposal and community dustmen,
Ignorance and superstition reigned rats and hogs.
Spreading from the Black Sea, the Black Death
Brought half of Europe to its grave. After the fall
Of Constantinople, a century on, came the New Learning
and the Renaissance, when Man was proud of being Man.
New worlds were discovered; science was born.
For Francis Bacon science was the source of power:
“Nature obey if you would be her lord.”
Later it was realized, utopias with clean streets
Must be defended, and that by science.
Now the rockets stand erect, poised to poison,
To spill the obscene beans and bugs to finish off.
Do up those buttons, Adam, or you return to dust
Before your time, lest the last mass turbulence
Reveals too late to what impotence
Our potent forces lead. Who then will ask
Or answer why our best minds, blind only
To the obvious, served to devise the means
Of mass destruction in the hire of governments
Of the people, by the people, for the people
Left dead or dying with no one to erect
Crosses to them in the shade of Adam’s tree?
While the True Vine cries” “Father, why..?,”
And heady Dionysus notes how potent was his drug,
Adam haves one final, futile, groan,
Upon this dark eve.
It was a lovely morning and we - that is Marge and me
decided the kids deserved a treat, so off we went.
We live in Barking, so we didn't have far to go.
We did the City and wandered down to Pudding Lane,
where once the king's bakery stood -
before it went up in flames, taking most of London with it.
The king loved his loaves hot.
We saw Wren's masterpiece and whispered in the gallery,
came out and wondered where to go next. Marge said:
"Bill, ask that bobby, he looks the friendly type."
So I went up to him and said:
"Good morning, Constable,
any suggestions for an excursion without frills?"
"I see the good lady's with you,
so it can't be Soho and cheap thrills.
Take 'em down to Hyde Park, Speakers' Corner,
round that way. You can take the Central Line."
That got us to Marble Arch in no time.
"Could do with a cuppa char" - that was Marge, not me
."Why don't we have a look at the speakers,
then go to that corner house for some nice cream buns?"
Marge agreed, so we walked over to the railings.
One guy was a Communist intent on revolution,
another a vegetarian, who said Adam and eve ate figs
until the fall, after which they ate pork pies and beef rolls.
Then there was this West Indian who ..
but then this other geezer caught my eye.
He was standing there on his soap box under a banner:
"The End is at Hand. Prepare to meet thy Doom."
His suit was black, hardly surprising, his shirt white,
but his face wore a dirty smirk.
All else fitted but the grin.
Was he savouring the memory of some naughtiness or sin?
Strange happiness amid prophecies dire of gloom.
"Uranium comes from Heaven,
and Plutonium from Hell.
And the two is gettin' married.
Jingle, jangle does the bell.
If you're good, you'll go to Heaven.
If not, you know the place.
Either way, be gettin' ready.
Thin's is moving at a pace."
So I said to Marge:
"Marge, get the kids.
Let's have a cuppa while we can.."
"Silly," said Marge, "it's hours before closing time."
"Not according to what he says, it ain't," I said.
Plant or mineral or child.? Or older; gunpowder plutonium ' heavy water
That can split boulders.' Time and
Opportunity day through night; many
Gifts are encompassed, if i am but
Half right? elecric, kinetic, frission
And mice.' All grist to some millers of
Averice and vice.. All have been made
Mechandise, bones renderd down, to
Glue for whatever.? Every country each
Town, A price on each atom of life as
Rationale, seems the hallmark of
Achivement to so many; somehow.? I
See it could be different.' I'll propose to
Offer this view.? Damn.!! The cost of such
Exposure; though. Means my initiatve will
Not make it out to you.'
One gram, yes one gram, that’s all it took,
The mass of a one dollar bill.
It’s enough to make you healthy, too,
When you swallow a little green pill.
One gram, just a small little mass,
Less than a paper clip.
It’s one third that of a coin,
Or a hundred dollar black poker chip.
One gram can also hold so much,
A hundred gigabytes in a USB port.
And it’s the weight of a small metal nib,
Used in a human rights court.
One gram, yes one gram, that’s all it took
When dropped on a Japanese hill.
One gram of plutonium for a hundred thousand lives,
To murder, to slaughter, to kill.
They want you stoned, emotionally stiff and complacent,
They heavily promote distraction and division
to manipulate the drones into a low-frequency madness.
They desire mules pulling overloaded barges
up and down a dead-end canal
christened a sixty-hour work week.
Within the illusion of hope and free will
they want goldfish people popping placebo pills,
Swimming round and round in a plutonium fishbowl.
Pooping out unicorns and rainbows and cheap thrills.
Unfeeling to the tuna nets closing fast
deaf to the locking of the chains.
They pray for drones with mash meal brains, thinking it honorable
to be sucking bunions off their kings and queens.
Out on the edge of the shadow, the day begins
Charting out a course to an aimless star, but not to wander
The pioneer has a map, with key, keeping his eye bright
He is armed, the light sabre, for friend or foe, and shield
Like the fusion that moves him onward, running plasmaCurrents of power, drive propulsion, launch away this ship
Yet first he must meet up with the hulking edifice, the ship
Soon to be parting from this orbit, the beam-core begins
Filled with helium ore and maybe tritium , the ionized plasma
This purring star-drive is ready to launch, to fly, to wander
Directly; the beam is also a current, projected energy, a shield
Meant to direct away oncoming dust, meteorites, too bright
To be picked from quantum radar as space without beams bright
Radiating a plutonium glow within, the pocket between the ship
And dark space, being twisted and warped by this, the second shield
Which keeps captain and crew safe from collision, the flight begins
The deep stars of the galaxy, both bright and dark, appear to wander
From within the tower of the star-cruiser, while it is revving up its plasma
Listening to the beam-core purr, its sufficient to check on the plasma
The captain takes his turn on watch, keeping his senses sharp, his eyes bright
Lest he be invaded, alien ships from without, or a slip of his mind to wander
Long he has kept to himself, on nights such as this, alone with his ship
And longing for the end of this flight from night, for a new day that begins
Without arms or a call to arms. All foes and aliens who force him to shield
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.