Children of Noah

Across the crowded, electric horizon,

metal carriages float, scoot, and align,

above the abyss that lays below,

clouded by the neon-wired growth,

The acid rain is scattering

the remaining residents of the

renaisance holocaust's resonance

in flocks of two and three where

androids dream of electric sheep

and babes scream despite mothers' pleas,

the grass is littered with trash and glass,

grounded stars without mass,

the concrete is drenched, icy slip-n-slides,

by discolored poisons,while the rats try to hide.

And boorish, pink men in checkered vests

appoint and propagate a pointless prophetess

whose only purpose is to gawk and be gawked at

while funds are bargained behind their backs. 

And the neo-bolsheviks and bourgeois

attending super-bowls and rock opera

never had the slightest discomfort 

or disaccording panorama

surveying  the trenches filled with

overly-optimistic opiate oracles

as long as their reach doesn't surpass

the muckrakers and gutter dwellers

stepping on their spines.

But the proles were no better than 

those mentioned above and beyond, 

at least, 

before the final feast had devoured 

the fashion designers and

picky diners attending the dinner 

of super-glutinous gelatins and 

gluttonous gag men going ga-ga

and begging for a ba-ba,

asking for their mamas,

wailing, flailing,

mithril, rings and 

postal mailing.

Until enough has been enough,

and the gutters rise up 

to clutch the bloody gulch,

cascading and chasing those

pink men turned black and blue

and red all over,

running for cover,

clawing at each other,

to no avail,

each of them fail,

and finishing with one final blow, 

they all turn back into scarecrows

and each watch over each others' fields

but secretly hope their crops to steal,

and stuff themselves with straw

until their fingers are raw

and bleeding

and their heads are reeling

and the sky is falling

and the rye is calling

and the crows are crowing

and reapers sowing

but the grass just keeps growing

and the sicklers are sickly

and the prickles are prickly

and the ticklers keep tickling

and clocks keep tick-tocking

as the arks are docking

and leaving for

those distant shores

no sea to see

for you and me

but only cold, dark, empty space

the only untouched remaining place

we could call home.

Reviews

[MandaBear]

I liked this!! Great job!

[MOON]

Flowing write lovely word choice as we race to flood and doom.

[John]

thank you for the review, I tried to make it flow the best I could.