Trash along the road

Politicians refuse to acknowledge
techno-junk.. they just dream about
the good old days of Steampunk !

No trains, no ships,
nor planes,
to plow the Morphine soaked
clouds above.
No more cities
in which to push
and shove...
and hunt desperately
for Olive branches
in the beaks of Doves.

They roost on great
metal heads,
as big as tanks!
Where memory cells spill out
in banks and banks,
barely alive in the solar sun,
but still blinking in the night,
one by one , feeble in their fight,
red , blue and white !

Mechanical eyes move all about
and switch back pupils,
in measured clicks,
and pop rivets and roll out
to flounder and sink in dark
oil slicks.

Metal trap-like mouths pop open,
then snap shut !
They gibble, they gabble ,
in blue Psycho-Babble.

A big severed robot head
that has fallen on it's cheek,
flashes huge red eyes,
but can no longer speak .
In a way, he wasn't so dumb,
He took the money and away
he did run!

I am not Schizophrenic
because I hear him,
neither am I religous,
because I do not praise him.

Just before he blew up
In his sandy desert bed,
in one last great effort he spoke,
and he said,
" We must balance positve
and negative metronomes,
that swing to sprocket to sprocket,
and wheels that turn and moans
with springs that click and rachet
and painfuly learn to balance levers
that teeter and twitter,and dial phones
to move sharp arrows that prick and sever,
tripping dangerous alarm zones,
and metal needles that insert
through saw gears in
filed precision in a shot!!
and then and only then,
can we make a simple
Tic, Toc!"

I am looking out upon the horizon
over the desert floor,
where the Moarning Doves
in the Organ Cactus
are calling for
the final score.

Soon the silence of night
will rumble and vibrate in moonbeams,
and the headless robots will begin
to stagger again,
those who have lost all of their logic
and never knew love,
around and around, they shuffle in the sand,
and it looks so tragic,
this trash pile along the road,
this discarded Techno-magic.....

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