Nicholai Vmir
Illustration: “Moloch” by Philip Stein. Stein painted workers prostrating themselves before the insatiable God, Moloch, who in this case is depicted as a modern Sport Utility Vehicle. The ancient Canaanites sacrificed their children to Moloch in order to atone for their sins.
Metallic, Ironic
Little do the hipsters know
their granny flannel decked with
golden dollar signs, their
knock-off talked-out Converse,
shag topped by a lid (the Lakers, ’84),
little do they know their outfit
rattles out the death of Western
destiny.
Ironic that our constant FBC and
TXT installs depression in our
soft drives, that we rage behind
immobile wheels while the walkers
rumble past, that our urge to travel’s
not to find something but to escape,
ironic that we hate the lives we helped
create.
Metallic are the smoking shafts-
one that burns holes through tender flesh,
one that turns black the hearts and lungs
of lost boys in Centralia.
The hulls that splintered, sank at port,
the gold patined with salty blood,
metallic were the prison bars that
silenced what they could.
Absurd to take a glut when
children starve on every unpaved street,
to stash away some cash to die on
after dying as a slave, to sever all
natural connection from the world that
gave you life, absurdity abounds
when you believe concrete is
paradise.
Plasticized petroleum- infernal god
that never dies, but kills haphazardly
in forms from Mastercard to DDT,
Playskool, Visa, La-Z-Boy,
the food we eat, the games we play-
now drags its own black ghosts
reluctant up to break
our judgment day.
I must say, Mr vmir, that your accurate description of today touched me to tears.
I will continue following your work and hope to one day write like you.