Ode to Doom, etc.
By
Philip Hurt
Ode to Doom
Inorganic sludge
coalesce with scum
of the organic type,
immense pressure
being the catalyst.
Rules of immiscibility
don't apply where all
the wretched go to
burn while the slaves
roast their rations upon
the flames.
Sublimation stopped
short, if even to elongate
the suffering of the
despicable for a
nanosecond longer.
Their remains cascade
over the rim of the
trough, the swine
devouring every morsel.
The manure produced,
fertilizes the fields prior
to being sowed, but the
crop yields only a black
harvest.
Absent of chloroplast,
a spreading blight fills
the void and only a
blood moon can slow
the inevitable famine.
the world is getting smaller
We live in a world that exceeds our expectations
of reality. Greater than our wildest imaginations,
where we have to call tech support to link our new
A.I. sexbot with its accompanied medical grade
silicone toy, and when our history books read as
current events in the Sunday paper.
Still, we all cozy up alongside one another with our
weapons drawn. In a digital fishbowl, we slosh in
the murky bandwidth, foul with the hate we spew
from the keyboard and skim the top, residue to feed
the fire. Raining acid as their reign of terror continues.
Go Go Gadgets around our fingers and wrists, in our
ears and pockets tethering us to our webs of WiFi.
Thousand dollar suits herd us in their pixilated corrals
and up-charge us by the hour for rent.
We feed on cookies of the tracking devices that we
gladly saddle ourselves upon and pay a premium for,
while distracted by shiny playthings. Systematically,
they rape us of our humanities as we continue to beg
for the crumbs that fall from between their fingers.
Exit, Stage Left
The backlit clouds, framed in by the sun
bouncing its light from the moon’s surface,
wonders aimlessly. Like floating adrift in a
liferaft at sea.
The stars from up above along with the sand down
below is equal to a ratio of infinite possibilities…
But how could that be?
questions the old man laying on his deathbed.
His hourglass, counting down since birth, is
approaching its last few grains of sand. The scraps
and left-overs of the old man’s existence was left
out to rot and is no longer palatable.
With bed sores bandaged over and clear tubes tying
the old man down, he peers out the open blinds of
his hospital room window. The vibrancy of the moon
calling for his attention, to finally take notice.
It appears to the old man that earth had a stronghold of
the moon, as if it had pulled it closer. Much like how
time has its death grip on him. And his resemblance with
the moon is uncanny, the yellow teeth and pocketed face.
How could that be?
He thinks. The old man wonders how he could have
lived his entire life, to die alone. To be tethered down
with the one person he fought to escape from.
Phillip is a disabled veteran, poet, and blue collar worker based in Grand Junction, CO. His work can be found in the Black Coffee Creative, sober.com, and The Light Within, and Saccharum.
By
Philip Hurt
Ode to Doom
Inorganic sludge
coalesce with scum
of the organic type,
immense pressure
being the catalyst.
Rules of immiscibility
don't apply where all
the wretched go to
burn while the slaves
roast their rations upon
the flames.
Sublimation stopped
short, if even to elongate
the suffering of the
despicable for a
nanosecond longer.
Their remains cascade
over the rim of the
trough, the swine
devouring every morsel.
The manure produced,
fertilizes the fields prior
to being sowed, but the
crop yields only a black
harvest.
Absent of chloroplast,
a spreading blight fills
the void and only a
blood moon can slow
the inevitable famine.
the world is getting smaller
We live in a world that exceeds our expectations
of reality. Greater than our wildest imaginations,
where we have to call tech support to link our new
A.I. sexbot with its accompanied medical grade
silicone toy, and when our history books read as
current events in the Sunday paper.
Still, we all cozy up alongside one another with our
weapons drawn. In a digital fishbowl, we slosh in
the murky bandwidth, foul with the hate we spew
from the keyboard and skim the top, residue to feed
the fire. Raining acid as their reign of terror continues.
Go Go Gadgets around our fingers and wrists, in our
ears and pockets tethering us to our webs of WiFi.
Thousand dollar suits herd us in their pixilated corrals
and up-charge us by the hour for rent.
We feed on cookies of the tracking devices that we
gladly saddle ourselves upon and pay a premium for,
while distracted by shiny playthings. Systematically,
they rape us of our humanities as we continue to beg
for the crumbs that fall from between their fingers.
Exit, Stage Left
The backlit clouds, framed in by the sun
bouncing its light from the moon’s surface,
wonders aimlessly. Like floating adrift in a
liferaft at sea.
The stars from up above along with the sand down
below is equal to a ratio of infinite possibilities…
But how could that be?
questions the old man laying on his deathbed.
His hourglass, counting down since birth, is
approaching its last few grains of sand. The scraps
and left-overs of the old man’s existence was left
out to rot and is no longer palatable.
With bed sores bandaged over and clear tubes tying
the old man down, he peers out the open blinds of
his hospital room window. The vibrancy of the moon
calling for his attention, to finally take notice.
It appears to the old man that earth had a stronghold of
the moon, as if it had pulled it closer. Much like how
time has its death grip on him. And his resemblance with
the moon is uncanny, the yellow teeth and pocketed face.
How could that be?
He thinks. The old man wonders how he could have
lived his entire life, to die alone. To be tethered down
with the one person he fought to escape from.
Phillip is a disabled veteran, poet, and blue collar worker based in Grand Junction, CO. His work can be found in the Black Coffee Creative, sober.com, and The Light Within, and Saccharum.
