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Plough

entry picture

Baked.

Heat rhymes with movement, stiff and awake,

and chapped, the master becomes the slave

wrapped around the handle bar, with beads, not to save in cool,

but to serve the molten tool

of human, sweat and machine.

The field is swimming in dehydration.

 

Dust.

Heavy throat and wicker splinters, eyes that rust

in windless fever, carve snakes and ladders

up and down, blunted daggers cost the mule

harvesting virgins for the last summer's rule.

Profit, pain and age,

are three knights pushing forward.

 

Dirt everywhere for gold.

Our love is God.

 

◄ Human Farm

Das Medusenhaupt ►

Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Thu 30th Jul 2009 09:55

I love this; I really love this. Reading it several times only increases my appreciation, and hopefully, my understanding of your intent. It sings with awareness of the human condition skilfully encapsulated. I had to 'fall into it'.

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winston plowes

Sun 26th Jul 2009 22:55

Hi Marianne, Up till half way through the second stanza this, for me was a cycling poem and a rewarding one... What is this subject/inspiration here? Winston

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