The Gunsmith

The smith sweats,
An armsworker,
Doing the work of shinigami,
Machining thanatos into steel,
Ore becomes death,

A masterwork,
An emotionless tool,
A cold weapon,
A true lifetaker,
A stygian masterpiece,

Harnessing thunder and hellfire,
The power of hades,
The power to take lives,
In one hand or two,
Exerting ones will through iron,

Stocks and smoking barrels,
Breathing fire and ash,
Charon on a bullet,
A life snuffed out,
The gunsmiths work complete,

Can he claim neutrality?
Does this artisan care whose life is ended?
Does this merchant burden himself with ethics?
Does this artist care how his art is wielded?
Is the dollar worth more than a life?

Monopoly

I’ve seen the elite,
A cartel of tuxedo players,
Vultures around a board held aloft by we the people,
They play monopoly above us,
Playing for borders and lives,
Among red buttons and whiskey,

An oligarchy of a smoking room,
Perfume of toxic fumes,
Product of industry,
A effluvium of poor mens moans,
Sounds of pickaxes and canaries,
Walls of blood diamonds,

The pieces are made of flesh,
Shaped like batons and warmachines,
And cry for help as they shift,
Beholden to old men,
Liars in chief,
Tycoons of trepidation,

They have played this boardgame for centuries,
From pyramids to railways,
From aeroplanes to the moon,
We have been pawns for too long,
What happens if we all stand up?
And knock their game over.

Thought Factory

I remember school as a manufactory,
A foundry for the young,
To be sculpted into the old,
Youthful discord refitted into social compliance,
Uniforms of uniformity,

Lecturing puppeteers,

Classrooms become mills,
Blackboards of dry routines,
Working on student models,
Thirty at a time,
Calling the register for indoctrination,

Orthodoxy faculty,

Grades fed into syringes,
To boost the addiction,
To narrow-minded success,
Creative glitches are patched out,
Rainbows must become grey,

Scholarly technicians,

This dread factory,
Churns out perfect little socialites,
Parochial suits and skirts,
All ready for the meat grinder,
You must all think the same.

The Pier

Life is a rusty pier,
Ruined by the eons,
With a meat grinder at the end,
A slaughterhouse on the river styx,
Bladed rollers slavering for gore,
Put there by a deific butcher,
The railings are strewn with warnings,
Attempting to mitigate our doom,
Yet they seem to be in languages,
Unknown to us,
Tongues of hope and diligence,

The wave below mock us,
Hissing jeers,
And throwing insults of mist,
The sea knows all as they say,
We’re given birth at the beginning,
In blood and pain,
Tagged with an expiration date,
Only to traverse this pier,
Towards further agony,
Further despair,
Meat for the industrial hunger,

More meat,
And more,
Ad infinitum.