Tuesday, December 20, 2016

DRONE



DRONE

On and on, the motherfucker
with the initials
somewhere near his name—
just goes on and on.
If I were smart,
or wise,
or cute,
or not ready
to slit my damned wrists—
I wouldn’t waste anything
especially
my too damned short time
listening to some lying killer
drone on about how everything
will be alright.

I know it won’t,
we’re fucked,
we’ve been fucked,
the future holds
more fucking for us.
No god damned orgasm though,
there never is with a rape.
Only an ejaculate that
stings,
steals,
strips the dignity
of the raped.

*

Silently it flies
at thirty thousand feet,
cameras are the eyes in the sky
for the guardian
of all that is righteous, good.

Hand on the stick,
finger the trigger
the Hellfire flies
aaannnnd—HIT!

Another fucking terrorist,
a school dance,
a wedding party
small ring bearers
gone,
dusted,
turned to ash
from a world away,
a planet where the wealth fat is found
eating the saturated contrails of jets,
jalopy’s,
missiles,
and
drones.  

Fucking remote controlled Reaper
blue light special beacon
bought at full retail,
sent to kill usthem
who do not swear allegiance
to the hand on the stick
finger on trigger,
Hellfire at the everready
that just keeps
droning
and
droning
and
droning…
our way to
the cooked baked burnt fossilized paradise.

*

The hives of them
that keep us alive are dying.
There the drones live
in service to their monarch,
no silly not a butterfly,
a queen. She dies too.

We think we know best
we install a replacement royal
to lead a near dead nation.
Keep the hive alive
take its honey
Orkin it
with pesticide—suicide.

All but the dead know, few care.
Scared of being stung by a friendly force.
Send a hellfire in. War is hell as is fear.

Drones give her majesty
the juice of life,
the stuff of royalty,
paltry buggy pleasures
found in roles long evolved.

Workers land on the pretty pollen filled bud,
dum de dum dum, just doing a job,
working,
working,
working,
Droning the way through the day.
Waiting to get home to shit some hive honey.
Tracking,
tracking,
tracking
Death,
wings,
hair,
mandibles
burning with death—
does the worker know?
Does the drone know?
They are the silent assassins?
The killer of queens,
the genocide bringer,
the murderer of its reason for living?

Do we?
care?

*

Fuck me to boredom,
blow me to burned up bits,
picture me
Death for the defenseless.
drone on.
No one listens
to explosions
not close in
while silence,
kills
the quiet life droning.




© M Durfee
12/20/16

9 comments:

  1. That pretty much sums it up. I hope you will have a nice Christmas anyway.

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  2. Says it all--and the blood won't wash off, whether its splash damage or second-hand stains of guilt--whether we say 'not in my name' or plaster ourselves with peace signs--we the fucked are still part of the fucking.

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  3. We are the gods of thunderbolts now. And it seems we've learned no mercy to go with it.

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  4. the picture is bleak, so bleak

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  5. Mark, do you mean your doctor-the one with the initials telling you everything is going to be okay? Help a sister understand! xo

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    Replies
    1. The surgeons all COULD fit Jodi but they were not in my mind when I was working on this long oratorio--mostly them who "use" science to deny science regarding Climate Change. An issue that is far more important to the planet and the people on it than me waking up in pain every day.

      This poem cascades from top to bottom in the 3 main sections and the final 11 lines is my personal feelings about the portrait given.

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  6. mark, it seems to me the usthem you mention is both the problem and the solution. and yes, now we maim a further step from the combat of battle--those damn drones. i'm as worried as anybody, but surely, there are enough good people to lean right.

    you're certainly one of them.

    happy holidays, my friend,
    love
    kj

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  7. You're fitting right in with my apocalyptic reading list.

    ReplyDelete

So Walking Man I was thinking...