Rust

Slowly slithering
Round gentle corners
Drafty machines
With gaps between
Train and platform
Edging through
Overgrown bushes
Soggy housing
Estates done in
Gather round
Lakes of bilge
Hear the fortune
Teller close another
Industrial relic
Can still taste the
Metal in the air
Rusted out workers
Pull apart their limbs
Waiting for replacements
While the rain seeps
Through the window
Onto the seats

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Rust

Biohazard

It’s hard to write poems
Like you’re a voice for
A generation of artists
Suffering in silence
Apathetic about stagnant
Careers in thrift managing
To exist day-to-day
Without ending it.
Glumly, I flick through pages
Of questionable merit
Every job needs a portfolio
Nobody uses filters to cut
Shit included to pad it out
Give it a noticeable weight
A polished golden biohazard
Charged at the industry rate

Biohazard