this one happened when i started my phase of writing where i critique the notion of people as machines


I, Robot

"The same people who are murdered slowly in the mechanized slaughterhouses of work are also arguing, singing, drinking, dancing, making love, holding the streets, picking up weapons and inventing a new poetry"- Raoul Vaneigem

Flawed,
A product of the revolution.
'innovative', 'beneficial'.
Collection of scrap metal.

Pieces of old stove,
Pennyfarthing for your memories
Ancient irons to press
the doubts flat into the hinges

Needing frequent oiling,
Pit-stops of grease and grime,
Clogging the unsealed spaces,
The openings for air.

Mass-produced
Along the moving conveyor belt
Static, yet forceful,
Pushing the coin to the very edge.

The joins, creases
Randomly glued together,
Open to a hypothetical crowbar
Aching to pull the panels apart.

Throw a spanner at the woodwork,
Just so you dig enough off the chip
To fuel the bonfire,
So the smoke billows through.

The bolts are unloosening,
Screws all coming undone.
But it's oh too fast,
And the pressure is rising

Steam is escaping,
The control centre is numb
And there are flames raging inside,
Nuts and washers navigating the air
As the invisible threads come undone

And my wheels roll on by.





Poetry by Caila Ihle
Read 849 times
Written on 2006-08-05 at 11:29

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dean
keep singing and holding the streets..
2006-08-09