Modern Times

Metal cogs turn,

my flesh is one and the same,

Chaplin’s muscles burn

but there’s still a smile on his face,

-

these suicide machines grind our bones

down into dust,

invincible, no longer shining, succumbing slow

to rust.

-

Concrete homes,

brutalist blocks,

workers’ eyes

on whirring clocks,

-

the factories

lick slime-endowed lips,

we make bunny ears

behind the boss’ back

for kicks.

-

The long walk home

is interrupted by the smog,

breathe it in deep,

it’s only two lungs that you’ve got,

-

the doctor’s machines grow loud

when processing your image,

you struggle for sleep

most nights these days

-

rare passings-out accompanied

by visions

of unending days,

-

tired legs running

on toxic fumes and

burning acid.

-

In dreams,

just like Brazil,

you fly free, above the clouds,

-

in dreams,

there are no drills,

there are no starving metal mouths,

-

in dreams,

there is no waking,

no more coming crashing down,

-

in dreams,

I plan on staying,

head held down until I drown.

-

We were born to run,

Springsteen begged us to do so,

but my feet are draped

in concrete,

and the chisels have turned blunt,

-

I feel this body rotting,

skeletal cage, forced to full throttle,

-

I was born to run

but the metal hands

still hold me

too tight.