Big Machine

Skin creased all bitter and citric,
Pity painted to the soles of their feet,
Chewed fingers and a lurch as they walk,
Unsteady and ignorant,

Faces sculpted from mashed potato,
Words mushed into one long sound,
Tobacco tans and eyes like the holes
In punched walls;

Someone gave them a voice,
Someone said we should listen,

And now the idiots are oiling the big machine,
Greasing its wheels and buffing its bonnet,
Adding spoilers and flags and freestyling,

The acid reflux of racism revs,
The manual gears of science and fact
Are now automatic lies and distractions,

The truth got so boring it fell off
To sit and rust at the side of a road,

And now we’re here giving time to the fumes
Of greed and hate fogged up to look like
A floating green aurora offering hope,

A beautiful mirage that echoes their anger,
Whispering excuses and offering answers
To the weak and paranoid questions
Rotting at the base of their souls;

They don’t really have goals anymore,
Just a hungry desire to burn things
And have a huge barbecue in the aftermath,

Then after that one long wrestling match
And an anthem that celebrates death.

If only they could take a breath and a look,
Read a book and cuddle up to something other than fear,

Maybe then we wouldn’t be here
And that big machine could just disappear.

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