Cockcrow to brownout, iron melts.
Fruitful and fruitless is the product of labour
under blast furnace sky. Golden age of man
built on seeping pile of manure and metallurgic sands.

Cronos has finger on the pulses,
his finger in the pies – a polyphagic appetite,
polydipsic thirst, promises profligate.
Hollow god of fortune in guise of sovereign man.

Staccato beats the seconds, the minutes,
the hours, the dread. In messianic masterstroke,
sickle wielding in parlous miscalculation,
sunders creator from his balls, heaven from this earth.

Eulogise, pathologise, mythologise to light
a conflagration. Killing time, past consuming future,
til darkness slowly dies from his seed of destruction.
Only to be condemned equally by those drunk
on his poisoned chalice and by those whose freedoms he trampled.

I started this poem a couple of weeks ago, ditching it when I advised myself not to go there. Anyway, I decided to revive it for Napowrimo. I understand that Napowrimo stands for National Poetry Writing Month. I’m a Napowrimo virgin. I can’t imagine what possessed me to join in this time. I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that as far as my poetry goes, it is all downhill from here.