Combustion engines, hydrocarbon’s sweat,
Mechanical brides to keep as pets.
Shining pistons, their magnificent thrust,
No grabby vulvas, just engineered lust.
How tempting to replace sphincter with valve,.
All greased up with petroleum’s salve.
How glorious the assembly line!
Factory weather is always fine,
Electricity sparkles night and day.
Iron doors shelter production’s display
Of dynamic rows of metal perfection
Disinfected from meaty connection.
Yes, machines die and rot, but decay is clean.
They crumble in rust and avoid the obscene
Fecundity of flesh that reverts,
That rises from death to redeem the dirt.
While iron eats oxygen, slowly burns
Into dry piles of dust and then returns
To quiet mineral realms without strife
Free from the miserable squalor of life.
We live for a while. Death is part of the deal
And its presence is our lives’ steady keel.
Our days are numbered, down to the hour.
Marinetti, I think you’re a coward.

Elizabeth Hurst

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Elizabeth Hurst  would like to hear them