Genocide in green
Note: I wrote this one this evening, directly after mowing the lawn. There's not much more to it than that, really, save to say that it only really had one draft, which surprised me, and that it worked properly in iambic pentameter, which likewise surprised me, and that it is very similar in theme and method to a poem that I wrote a while ago that I will probably put up here tomorrow for comparison (and because I rather like it).
My roaring death machine blasts out the world -
the twitterings of birds in trees, the breeze,
the giggle-screams of children - and I kill
and kill and kill without regret, remorse,
repine, reflection. Irregularly,
at certain intervals, the corpses clog
the mechanism and the process stops.
These irritating setbacks are just that;
the blockages are cleared and left to rot
in piles. (Sometimes the result us used
as fertiliser.) I continue on,
relentless and regardless, killing in
straight lines for speed and for precision. I
like to be neat and clinical, exact:
this weekend holocaust is justified
by its aesthetic value and by the
relief and relaxation that it brings.
My lawn is lush and pure: suburbia
perfected with hard work. There are no weeds.
My roaring death machine blasts out the world -
the twitterings of birds in trees, the breeze,
the giggle-screams of children - and I kill
and kill and kill without regret, remorse,
repine, reflection. Irregularly,
at certain intervals, the corpses clog
the mechanism and the process stops.
These irritating setbacks are just that;
the blockages are cleared and left to rot
in piles. (Sometimes the result us used
as fertiliser.) I continue on,
relentless and regardless, killing in
straight lines for speed and for precision. I
like to be neat and clinical, exact:
this weekend holocaust is justified
by its aesthetic value and by the
relief and relaxation that it brings.
My lawn is lush and pure: suburbia
perfected with hard work. There are no weeds.