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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Blu Fludots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: ConScribe
    ASL Info:    19/M/Tucson,AZ
    Elite Ratio:    5.11 - 262/360/143
    Words: 1275
    Class/Type: Poetry/Society
    Total Views: 1441
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 7409



    Description:
       I wrote this poem a very long time ago, but never posted it because I thought it sounded far too negative. So here it is now. I hope you enjoy.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsBlu Fludots
    -------------------------------------------


    Was it the poison in the glue, which held everything together?
    Was it the bricks, piled high in a hardened vanity?
    Was it the buildings and the way they looked,
    In the comfort of an artificial shower, at the break of noon,
    Or was it the stare from the sluggish shutters,
    A million sets of hollow eyes with worn down window shades?

    Was it the neon glow that went everywhere,
    Followed by the streets, crooked and corrupt,
    Spreading through America faster than disease?
    Or was it the way neon could light any activity
    And make it somehow seem ennoble?
    Was it the inconsistency of everything,
    Along with the patterns of man and the status quo?
    Was it the sin spoken shepherd, or was it the herd unheard?
    Was it the pity of the pages torn, or the wonder of the written word?
    Was it the knowledge we thought we knew, or just the lack there of?
    Was it the lack of reason, or was it the frame of mind
    That hung askew on the Berlin Wall,
    Twisted with ash and the tension of air?
    Was it the all too apparent wire tapping?
    Was it a microchip imbedded into the brain,
    With the persuasive element of electronic impulses?
    Was it the airplanes, or the runway strips?
    Was it the pilot on the intercom,
    Telling us to stay calm?
    Was it the storm? Was it the levee,
    A weak opposition to the titled tidal to come?
    Or was it just the rush of fear all along?

    Was it the king, or the queen , or was it just the rich?
    Was it the bacon fat, and nothing but that?
    Was it a feast on one of the seven,
    Watching each other choke and lose air?
    Was it the smell of shit up our noses,
    Causing us to trip with heads held high?

    Was it the billboards, slanted in sexuality,
    Attracting the eye with foolery as to distract it to a disorderly death?
    Was it the optical illusion of smoke and mirrors,
    Sucked in via antenna, to be stuck in the mind?
    Was it any given game show host, and his fake, contagious smile?
    Was it the cartoons, and the morals they spread,
    Or was it all the books from dead authors we’ve read?
    Was it the T.V. dinners, mixed with integrity’s by-product,
    Washed down with mindless dribble drunken from the tube?
    Was it radio waves, traveling at the speed of magic,
    Playing all your favorite songs you never heard as it weeps across the desert?
    Was it the headphones, with their Jack Knife coupled obscenities piercing ears,
    Or was it the compact disc, with its edge that could kill?

    Was it the make-up, matted to make up for the masses’ mangled mystique?
    Was it the mirror, with its copycat seam, or the light,
    Steady, white, and in the shape of a bulb, softer than the neon fixation?
    Was it the kiss, reserved for those who live,
    Only to ultimately taste the distasteful red lipstick worn by lady death herself?
    Was it the forbidden silk dress, worn around the neck as a noose?
    Was it the high heals that stomped holes into hearts?

    Was it the bar?
    Was it the bottle?
    Or was it the drunkard, losing his temper over a loss of breathe,
    Only to recoil upon himself in the light of self recollection?
    Was it the last call that no one heard, but everyone felt?

    Was it the brain itself, as tricky as it can sometimes be?

    Was it the porcelain, or perhaps the pills we popped to puke?
    Was it the drug of choice, whatever the vice, whatever the price?
    Was it the needles, or the houses with walls soaked in hyper-venom?
    Was it the doctors, or just the medicine they gave us?
    Was it pleasure, or just the pain that it hid?
    Was it the methadone clinics,
    With their clean, white sheets of opportunity or relapse they provide?
    Was it the loony bins, filled to their brims?
    Was it the anti-depressants, or just the depressing news that you’re depressed?
    Was it the leather sofa, or the money we wasted to lay on our backs?
    Was it the smell of new carpet that we all new, all to well when unwell?
    Was it the need to feel fine, or just the want?

    Was it the secret ingredient in suffering, making us all sick?

    Was it the war, or was it the warrior?
    Was it Agent Orange gone stale, stealing our happiness,
    Just to grow fear where our forest of thought use to be?
    Or was it mustard gas, given a new kick,
    Backstabbing the throat of its allies with their cyanide fillings?
    Was it the radiation, poisoning our bones and brains with pity,
    Tumors growing out of bullet hole wounds?
    Was it the nationality, or the starchy symbolism of their colors?
    Was it the devil’s red pen, that signed so many treaties,
    Or the bombs that seemed to fall from Heaven above?
    Was it the submachine guns and its random scatter spray,
    So round after round an angel loses its wings?
    Was it the preacher, or was it the politician?

    Was it the pen, or was it the sword?
    Was it the newspaper’s ink, staining our brain with fear,
    Giving us only that, the nuisance of news and nothing more?
    Or was it the typewriter, key after somber key,
    Like unfolding on the piano of imagination,
    Playing poetry for the sick?

    Was it the mosquitoes, bloated with blood,
    Running round the canal, here they come?
    Was it the malaria, making miracles into macabre magic?
    Was it the slave labor, or the comfort it was able to steadily supply?
    Was it the tracks, laid between seas with steel?
    Was it the telephone wires,
    Supporting countless pairs of busted shoes and broken hearts?
    Was it the buzz of a 747, engines that shake leaves and life off trees?
    Was it the seatbelts, rendered practical but useless all at once?
    Was it the chainsaws, or the canopy of greed left untouched,
    Trapping us in the moss of money, keeping us from our real dreams?
    Was it the coal, copper, or callous stone,
    Or the aftermath of strip mines, a base with oil soaking back to its base?
    Was it the Exon Valdez, o’ so crude when killing creatures?
    Was it the eminent domain claimed on my mind?

    Was it the beauty artistically concealed within birth defects?
    Was it the toxins, wasted on the water?
    Was it the Fountain of Youth, triple filtered to cure it of piss?
    Was it the anti-aging creams, or just the rapidly decaying dreams?
    Was it the sickening smell of anything old?
    Was it the nursing homes, with everything so artificial to keep the elderly alive?
    Was it the flowers, grown to be picked and put atop graves?

    Was it the uncontrollable urge to inhale?
    Was it the heart beat, heard like a war drum from a mile off?
    Was it the opening of virgin eyes to let in the sin?
    Was it the shadows from the buildings,
    Bricks, glue and all?
    Or was it the fleas from the filth
    All over again?






    Submitted on 2006-06-22 12:37:09     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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