Tag Archives: capitalism

fragment

that fall from grace a mere trip

a glide into unfixed morality

quantummed checkerboard deserts

where rivers dribble

past thirsty farms

here where rain and wind

are corralled and fenced

traded and brokered

fragmented beyond limits

to where guilt

is weightless enough to be free

no charge for sighs

those breaths expelled

gracelessly

 

 

David Trudel         © 2014

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Sweatshops

I have worn team colours in the past

Becoming cloaked in corporate identity

Giving away autonomy for crowd acceptance

Fitting in

Becoming a proxy for a marketing strategy

Where boardroom fictions based on superficial studies into buying habits

Create reality

Reality that echoes the worst excesses of selfish greed

When textiles were made with the blood of children mixed into cotton gins

And even Factory Acts failed to halt the exploitation of the poor

We thought we were better than our forebears

In our industrial self-righteousness

When union shops paid living wages

And workers could afford the products they made

Until the owners closed the factories

Shipped them overseas

Replicated the conditions of early 19th century Manchester

In countries far away

Countries that have no qualms about spilling blood

In support of commerce

So that marginalized westerners who no longer have factory jobs

Can afford cheap clothes at big box stores

Ignorant of the bloody fingerprints that are sewn into each label

Uncaring that everyday low prices reflect everyday absent ethics

And a high tolerance for suffering

So we buy products we don’t really need

Made in places that we’ll never see by fingers that we’ll never touch

Not caring that those fingers lie buried in rubble

Crushed by profit margins and unleavened greed

Victimized by the impersonal message of capitalism

That values money more than morality

And quarterly earnings more than souls

 

 

David Trudel   © 2013

 

 

5 Comments

Filed under Poetry

Conflict

Missile to missile is where we are now

Mano a mano

Is strictly quaint

A caricature of conflict

Which now trades body blows for rows of body bags

Blood running as deep as black ops unhinging

Each Pandora’s box on this green earth

Where Eden has been fracked and strip-mined

Into an unsettling distortion that screams into the black night

Like a twelve year old sex slave before she’s drilled into submission

This green earth that has been pissed on far too much

Scorched into barrenness

Until its skin dries up and is carried away on the wind

It’s not the accumulation of wealth but the hoarding of it

That cudgels our collective whimper like any vicious overseer

Cancerous growths of unmitigated greed eat the body politic

To death

Evil commodified

Quarterly reports don’t include sins of the profit margin

Factory slaves who die in tumbled grief

A middle class outsourced to pay for higher gates and broader lawns

For the fearful few who totter on their towers of transitory wealth

Waiting for a realization of impossibility

Ignorant of the weight of the sewers filled with their misgivings

Flushed with success

 

 

David Trudel   © 2013

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Dirge

I would rather write lyric verses in praise of beauty

Describing the wonders of forest glades or sunsets

But I can’t

I’d prefer to get lost in love and play with cosmic metaphors

But I’m not

I’d like to write erotica about inclined curves and heated passions

Or find the meaning of life in a raindrop

But I can’t

I’m blocked by blockhead politics and hate

Intrusions of evil that turn gardens into killing fields

That never go fallow with rest and disuse

And the only renewable that gets attention is fear

So I won’t praise beauty today

Or dally in love’s embrace

Instead I mourn the clearcut memories of paradise

Celebrate the blackened lungs of wageslave toilers

Bemoan the fate of children locked in foul factories

Feeding a frenzy for the cheapest disposables

Wail my ululations for the funerals of slaughtered innocents

So while I’d rather write lyric verses

Today I can’t

Today I weep

And curse the evil that has blackened the once clear sky

Perverted by profit and plunder and imagined power

I mourn the battered face and broken bones of Mother Nature

Beaten down by man’s dominion

So today the only song I sing is a dirge

At this ubiquitous funeral

That never seems to end

 

David Trudel    © 2013

 

 

2 Comments

Filed under Poetry