---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v081) (the April 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

Order this writing in the book (bound) Down in the Dirt poetry edition		order the 5.5" x 8.5" ISSN# book order the 8.5" x 11" ISBN# book

The Blood Machine

Kristopher Miller

The Blood Machine
Gathers fresh meat, rotten meat, poor meat, and even rich meat
To churn into gore and fireand fuel the red soaked engine
To continue endless massacre that just showcases as statistics on its screens.
The machine runs over some pedestrians,
And the machine cleans off blood off its lights
As casually as a convertible driver wipes rainwater off his windshield with his wipers.
It heaves up its chain gun and it rattles with the motion of a rattlesnake’s warning sound,
Only no warning lights or calls were given by the machine
As its target, a platoon of infantrymen are shredded up for the worms and maggots to munch on.
Its diplomacy involves shooting mortar first, nuking the local pubs second
And crushing the ambassadors who visit later.

The Blood Machine
Lacks a soul, for anything that kills without purpose
Because failed goose stepping artists,
Former hitmen turned dictators,
And whipping boys turned sadists
Never have souls anyway.
The brains are a mishmash of battle networks and kill rosters.
It only calculates how many opposing tanks were destroyed
Or how many aircraft carriers were blown apart like soup cans heated too much from the inside
But its circuitry never counts how many babies are crushed by its treadmill wheels
Or how many men and women are pierced apart by its fifty-caliber revolving guns
As they seek out resistance with old shotguns and Molotov cocktails.
The machine’s muscles are synthetic and run hot with energy,
From the amount of blood it absorbs from its victims,
And from the wreckage it collects for fuel.
The machine does not speak
For its fury is expressed on scorched soil it leaves behind
After incinerating wheat fields and cattle stations with white phosphorous grenades
And nuclear-powered missiles it packs within its steaming, hinged-together body.
The cogs outside its core sing a hymn of broken flesh,
And hot, bone melting plasma it fires to accompany as backup vocals
To their victims’ cries for a weeping god offering mercy and sympathy.
The whirling blades attached to its arms string a chorus of screams,
And of sharp crack of woodlands mangled up in splintered messes
As the machine treads apart meadows, lakes, and mountains
To bring its brand of industrial warfare close to home.
The engine powering up the machine cries a requiem of unanswered prayers for peace,
Or smashed talks of civil disobedience,
Of cracked discussion to disarm nations of their thousand warheads aimed at one another.
The machine is not build for peacekeeping, its creators say,
It is built for war
And war it will create.

The Blood Machine
Was planned, drawn out, built and sold by designers
Of the Hawk and Spear Corporation,
The same company that brought the world catapults, mustard gas and the atom bomb
Who thought the latest assault rifle did not kill fast enough.
They thought the latest model of tank didn’t blow enough craters on Earth’s surface.
They even shook their heads at the latest helicopter that was versatile,
But only versatile to see battle-scarred lands and not versatile enough to create them.
So Hawk and Spear sold their weapon to the press writing today’s stories in popular blood,
To war gamers who were fed up with the digital thing,
To the generals who wanted to see the next big Battle of the Bulge and Blitzkrieg,
And to global leaders who preferred to lean back in their chairs to watch the ball game
And let the machine take care of the other problems proved “unfit” for diplomats and secretaries.

The Blood Machine
Made all other weapons obsolete,
As it did make peace meaningless.
The plans for the machine were always there though.
It was once a stone for crushing shells and rib cages.
It was an axe for hewing wood and meat.
It was a spear of strife used to pierce Spartans and Persians alike.
It was a hammer to make metal and to destroy metal and craniums.
It was a sword for conquering fiefs, nations, and peoples.
It was a sickle of justifying war and its reasons for war.
Most recently, the machine served as a rifle of fire and brimstone and revolution
And cannons for remaking the world by hastily written constitutions
And holes in crumbling churches and hospitals.

The Blood Machine
Is now the new God of War,
It is the incarnation of one of the Horsemen,
It is the Military Industrial Complex fully realized and dreaded,
And it is Death made concrete with the numbers of bodies it reaps every day.

The Blood Machine
Roars, rages, and revs up its power core
As it speeds up to smoking shelters,
To screaming soldiers,
To crying civilians,
And to slaughter all for the wholesale
Of money, power, and entertainment for its investors.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...