The Infernal Machine Poem by Matthew Buchwald

The Infernal Machine



This preposterous gizmo, when its drive
Wheels start spinning: cogs, ratchets and
Levers torpedo its balance setting it afire
To the tune of smash the keys player piano.
It falls apart not in a logical way, but willy
Nilly catapults limbs and organs into space,
Taking its own sweet time, and making quite
A mess, but attracting a great deal of attention,
Especially from the taste-makers and those
Knowledgeable members of the press expert at
Safeguarding the public's fragile sensibility from
Oddball artifacts by vivisecting them; meanwhile,
The thingamajig expels a load of gears and sprockets
Onto the floor. Terrified and cowardly, the audience run
For their lives, while the thing continues to smash
Itself into tiny pieces, a magnificent crescendo,
A bravura performance, the swan song of the machine!

Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: art
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