The Death Machine

THE 
  DEATH 
      MACHINE

    by Dena McKinnon


A decomposition of nutrition.
Mutation of magnificent maleficent. 
Restoring reclamation festering in ruin.
Parasitic symbiosis. 
Thrombosing, engrossing vass biomatter.
Such vascular, an organ organically reclaimed.
Bleeding.
Dissolvent dust leaking to the crust.
Oh, earth. 
Maker. And Taker. 
Eternal machine.
Mechanism, oh, microhabitat.
A breath. Of death.
Beautiful patina, thy machina. 
Oxidation. A reformation.
Taker. And Makers. 
A benevolent big bang of bargaining chips.
Nourishing death juice. 
Rich chocolate mousse of microcosm.
Fat bosom for the metastatic universe.
Needer. And feeder. 
A gadget of faggots feeding the flame. 
In a game. A gander.
Meandering through the death machine...
          We find life.   

HeR NaME

Cause and effect,
Intent and actions like fractions that effect the outcome.
Sow a seed. A deed multiplies like metaphysical residue.
Curfew cometh down like a clown without a smile.
The ethicization staycation in catacombs of honeycombs.
A wrinkle in time where a dime equals a dime.
And bees sting like honey in a horn of plenty. Maybe twenty.
Foreign currency, a trick in the mix of maxing out consequence.
Think linked with rebirth, twisted, simultaneously essential.
Managing a mystery.
A theory, a model, a paradigm.
A metaphor of metaphysical whimsical eyelashes like butterflies.
And eye for an eye. Blood for blood. The cow chews no cud.
Reap and sow. Sow and reap.
A prince in a crown of casualty.
An itch.
Stitch.
She's a bitch.

HeR NaME iS KaRmA.

,

Rust and Blood

Leaves like rust scattered 

 about the earth's bottom like a blanket on a sea of jellyfish,
squishing the dish of the diver's mask.
Choking.
     Gasping.
         Suffocating.
They keep falling like feathers from roadkill on a cloud.
                    Drifting.
            Sifting.
Melting.
Like a pool of blood they wither while bones quiver into a pot of broth
steaming with life but falling like death.
Branches bare.
There.
Without a care.
Pain screams the person.
A perception of pincushion reality slipping.
Dripping.
Tripping...on a splinter of a tree once forgotten,
lest it made cotton across the fields of white through the night a blight storm cometh with a thud.
          Leaves.
                Covered.
            In.
              Snow. 
                                       Rust and blood now five below.

Back-I Mean Zach In My Office

A man with mystery...aka Snatch, IT Guy,  even Z...

Quiet but mighty without Z where would I be?

Without smilies and semi colons it would make me so sad...

Today Z fixed my keyboard and it made me so glad!

But keyboards are not all the Zach can attack...

Magic man of potions I scream Zach hurry back!

He comes with his essentials and oils from afar...

Sprinkling peace and tranquility from his little brown jar.

Everyone needs a guy like the Snatch....

He can hack a computer or sneak through a latch.

He can brew colloidal silver and loves CBD.

He adds it to his vape and drops it in his tea. 

He's only been in my office space a tiny little while...

But damn he's an asset. Can turn my frown into a smile.

His fixing my keyboard today made me realize and see...

That I'm glad to have a co-worker superstar that we call the Z!

BiTTeR CoLD

Shivering, snowbound cities...

Windchill warnings way down south...
Global warming they call it...
But ice can't skate without such fate...
And white as snow means dead as night...
Skeleton trees can't even put up a fight...
But choke on a shot of bitter...
Even shit freezes on the shitter...
No throne of iron but ice....
Run 'fore it gets you thrice...
Winter-hardened handmaids...
Tell a tale of death cometh...
While tears freeze before they drop...
Atop a white blanket of DEATH...
Enticing the frigid to come inside.

My Boss

My boss watches me like a drone,           
When all day he talks to his phone.
Hot with his temper
Words like a splinter
He wishes he was Al Capone.

by Dena McKinnon

Listen

Do you listen...
To the bitter cold, the days in the calendar grown old...
Bleak blizzards glisten against crystal snow, do you know...
That freezing flurries have no hurry when the flannel's fleece has a peace...
Ice crystals, ice skating, ice hockey, ice fishing...insulation...
When the polar pullover runs out of heat and pine cones the only thing to eat....
Worship the furnace for the fire before you retire can chase away death...
Melted mittens, bony kittens sipping ice cream on a dream of sun shines...
Minds frigid freezer frosty chills that only a ratchety radiator kills...

Do you hear...
The sound of frostbit fingers, snapping and breaking in water warm...
Can be no swarm when the hive's frozen, sleeping bees by the dozen...

Can you taste...
Winters warning knocking at the knob cakes cushioning the blow...
Footprints in the snow...
Or angels dusted with a glistening throw...
Frozen solid like the solstice cometh to charm...
Do as you will but do no harm....
Alarmed by the lack of senses....
And fences...
Do you feel the season?