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Updated on August 13, 2013

THE future's rapping at our door:

New York. 1924.

The past, we pray, to keep at bay,

Since tomorrow's world was build today.

The synthesis, the self-destruction,

All these ruins, for the take:

Progress drones and marched on,

Yet, leaves us nothing in its wake.

THE workers, downstairs, pressed in ranks,

And workers build our tools of change.

The masters rule atop on high,

Monarchs of all which they survey.

First, from the ground and looking up,

Next, from the air and looking down.

Soon, from the future, looking back

Then from the sidelines, looking ‘round.


Make no mistake!

(For their metaphors have since collapsed.)

The tools we made, now

They've made us.

(Our destinies already have been surpassed.)

DEARLY, how our caves have grown.

The queens? (The breeders.)

Workers? (Drones.)

Mass culture and mass media,

Mass toil, pace and influence.

FRITZ LANG! Grab your camera crew, and

Capture, fast, this brave nuance!

For, metropolis now lies in ruin,

(‘Though no one's really noticed yet.)

The forward gears, like

Astral spheres,

Now counter-turn in an angst regret.


THE DAWN OF MAN, brought the ‘Master Plan':

To men with tails and jagged nails, who

From their trees, onto their knees

Swung on down, and looked around.

And crafted tools, and crafted rules,

And ate some bugs like they were drugs.

THE DAWN OF FIRE, brought desire:

To apes, who ate grapes,

And squatted bare-ass in that tall grass.

And waited with sticks, to chase those chicks, who'd

Who'd weave them rugs,

Who'd bear their cubs,

So that in a few more million years, we'd

Lose our tails and grow some ears.

THE DAWN OF DECISION, brought dawn to religion:


So those confused and ill-amused,

Could fill a Book, with

Loaves and fishes,

Prayers and wishes,

Carpenters and crooks.

‘Though when salvation's on the line,

No one pays such things much mind.

THE DAWN OF TIME, brought laws and crime:

For all them villains makin' millions,

For all them Heroes , makin' zero's

Passing time, absorbing wine, to

Numb that haunting, restless feel,

Of helplessness behind the wheel.

THE DAWN OF INDUSTRY, brought in misery:

The workman's fears, of turning gears, meant

Shoveling rocks and punching clocks.

The hooker's skills to pay her bills, meant

Walking blocks down to the docks, to

Suck on lots of sweaty cocks.


heralded in destruction:

For lovers with rubbers,

chanting pleases to Jesus,

For boy's whose toys were girls in curls, for

Those with a penis ruled by Venus.

SO..... This is how the end begins:

The mice no longer shit and scramble,

Beneath some Cheshire fat-cat's grin,

Yet from their slumbers,

Chime like thunder,

(Only to loose their voicings in the wind.)

SO..... This is how the end begins:

The haunting tone of foreman's whistles,

Dying from a lack of breath;

Their whistles weep

Like sirens mourning,

(Over all those buttons, never pressed.)

SO..... This is how the end begins:

The steady hum of turning gears,

Staggered to a standing pace

While buildings wither in the distance,

(Propped atop the shadows that they still attempt to chase.)

SO..... This is how the end begins:

The backdoor key which fits no lock,

The in-gear process numbing wrench,

(Not so much thrown, as it was dropped.)

The masters' steady churn of boredom,

That once grew like cancerous lungs,

Like childhood sin, now ushers in,

Those reasons for which they've

Lost their tongues.

THE Junkies with their many tracks.

The chessboards with their many blacks.

The factories with their many stacks,

House workers wearing many hats.

What will the masters do, on finding

Daisies growing in the cracks?

YES, we realize in passing,

One last time,

That along with our tails,

We've lost our minds.


© 2013. Three Doves Media, LLC.


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