Garry Stanton

Rookie - 71 Points (March 16,1964 / Edinburgh, Scotland)

Caveat Emptor: 2008 - Poem by Garry Stanton

I place my penny
in the vending machine of
Eternity. It grinds and groans.
Metal on metal.

What does my coin buy?
Mortar, bricks,
kindling sticks. A sleek, pulchritudinous
automobile. Or a serviceable
Philippino maid to marry,
(one careful owner) got out of a
pages, through the ages, keenly wet-fingered by
The Bereaved, The Disappointed


this old rock. So small now, it seems, a needle’s eye.

We drink from the bladders of the dusty dead:
Boudicca, Bolivar, Bonaparte,
a marvellously random sample,
don’t you think? ;
or we may feast upon the
sickly-sweet fecundity of antiquity.
Viruses stretch, mischievous aerial
and we sense their twitching probosci__ probepenetratepulsepollute:
existence as ring o’ roses.

Crunching Credit? A World to Edit?
Do we feel like minor aphids
in the tightest web, silkily glued
by the blind expert
who plots gossamer games
in a play with no end?

So mundane, Fiscal Pain!
See the spider of imaginary Money,
repose behind cloudy
laying out on his
high altar
offal sacrifices,
viscera to the Gods of
Virtual Accountability. No rhyme.

We talk of Billions,
We hear of Trillions,
Gadzooks, Gazillions! ,
Pointless abandoned

I contemplate Billions, too.
I contemplate the empty-bellied,
the cataracted
the leprosied
limbo people.
I see the illiterate
the dehydrated
the hopeless
the plain desperate
rat-licking numberless,

I see, in my nightmares,
the amputated stumps of toddlers,
and bone-mouthed hags.
This is a story without end.

Hah! , Gazillions,
Buffalo Billions.

What does it matter, when
Congress and Senate,
important organs,
need the money first?
For every dollar
deployed to save them,
there is a further
nail in the coffin of,
the ever-growing
of, the Damned.

Devil, God, Demon
Heaven, Hell.

How laughable.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, October 10, 2008

Poem Edited: Friday, October 10, 2008

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