Heart's a Wasteland

Seven years of fallout, bending at my bridges
and cycling through paramount and indetermined shackles.
From plastic chains that sprung from ground, biting at my toes,
to monster clamps of rusted iron that spray my blood and marrow.
My center valves are burdened and my forward motions slow,
leaving time for scavengers to gnaw at all my trimmings.
With beaks and maws upon me, I reach ahead to others,
their vaguest silhouette a handle on which I hope to grasp.
But beneath my palm and finger tips there's industrial decor,
and girls that smell of smoking stacks with skin of pallid gold.
Their breath is like a noxious gas that licks my flesh from bone;
their faces lined with railroad tracks that shine in iridescence.
But as they are the presence whom is given as my choice,
I dig my grip into their hips and hoist myself to level.
And I dare not look into their eyes for fear of finding light,
illuminating all their flaws and all of my departures.
Some of them will cast me off towards dirt-encrusted caskets,
others may be lonesome there and will seek to tend my wounds.
Regardless of intentions heard, they'd find me bored and wary,
and lucid in my spoken tongues and all the noise I've bred.
Be it top or bottom placed or the forceful from behind,
I'll keep my eyes transfixed upon the paint, the dye, the metal.
And known to me that while the bombs were raining down to Earth,
my worth is measured by my face and the green beneath my nails.
So as the radiation turns me from this seething, writhing mass,
and the many flaying links will sink into my hull,
I'll know I've dreamt of better things and sought to bring them down
from orbit in their spacial ring to embrace me and my frown.
Be them not accepted by a body 'midst collapse,
perhaps they'll use their satellites to simply pick me up.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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