Citatepedia^®.com

The Machinist

This flagrant bawl, the fore-and-aft of a misery lingers
Upon my lips as I nonchalantly sit here, with my hand
Cradling my forehead as the rivulet of the morose waters
That slither across the wooden table where the machine
Breathes its electric dysfunction billows over my respite.
It seals the chasms, the restless machine waits there
As if akin to me, with my lips ajar with cigarette -
I am a machinist and I am one with the soliloquized wind
Of the shamefulness of rue and bereavement -
A disease one goes through in a carousel, what a circus!

This stale drink that is quiet yearns to be caressed in a lustful
Joust of human flesh and glassware triviality – this loneliness
Is far from what the populace had told me: Loneliness is
Your own image in front of the mirror, trapped and desolate
As you stand idly askew.
These fools know nothing about loneliness – a sordid detail
That is passed on through tongues, over musical beds and
Fiery love-making as we rampantly try to eschew death by
Hiding in secret places, away from people, away from love,
Hope, religion, commercialization and other things;
But what luck I have, in front of this machine as I sing
The elegy of its gears, the electric facture that fulminates
Like the harlequin. And here, from the pits you start to
Curse their faces, retch at pavements, get piss-drunk at
The local bar that you frequent albeit your soul lost in
The nuisance of the freeways, saluting the cars in an acquiescent
Capitulation but the cars only stifle to break skin and not
To claim your life.

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!