Modern Times

The notion of progress is the worst kind of drug
sprouts from seeds of blame
intertwines
with bricks of logic
not unlike a fetterbush
all handsome and showy

all deceptively simple
and modified
with each passing possible impediment
we pump fists into stagnant air
and yell out to God and the sky
'Hell yeah!' and 'We made it!'

we scamper for sunlight
as visionless moles
trampling on fiefs underfoot
bartered for important looking concrete
and pompous fibreglass

before we return to whence we birthed from
our clay moulds facing the stars
we believed we could have reached
if were specified a time frame

concur,
we are all really apes with iPhones
and it's 2011.
.Modern Times

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© Hazim Haemoglobin 2012

Poems


Modern Times


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