The Clean Life Poem by Peter Black

The Clean Life



In terms of life, at first sight people seem
Like ants: move sand, dig holes, walk in line;
But we make far worse a society;
Even I smoke holes through my lungs and throat,
Write down petty words and blow sugar smoke,
Nauseous from the smell of flesh, gas, and grease,
While outside I see the motions of metal:
Automated beasts with violent screams,
For the chorus of our requests for more.
Hoping to feel something: even a bee's sting,
Look! They are dead, poisoned bellow our feet,
Where fake stones lead the way towards main street,
Lined with buildings and stores: our overlords,
Whose glass and metal skins reflect the glow,
Of life, off the grass, up towards the sky,
Where blue has been smudged gray smog with grime,
While we drill holes, count paper; see no sign,
That our skin and minds are gasping so choked,
For the clean life where you live; our not sold,
To pull levers inside the beast's throat,
Spin gears in its stomach, propel its limbs,
Digging caverns to swallow up greed's din:
Chowing down heavy, throwing up red sparks,
That splash on our faces leaving black spots.

Monday, December 22, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: life
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