Published: 30 September 2025

here’s how we get rid of money

First, we build robotic food factories,
then we give food away for free.
Except it will be healthy food
limited sugar, salt, fat, meat. People
will have to learn to cook to make it
taste good, but because of all their
spare time, as a result of not having
to make money to buy food, everyone
will become a very good chef. People
will be weighed when they pick up their
food, and their calorie intake will be determined
according to their body mass index. However,
people will want processed foods, potato chips,
doughnuts, anything deep fried, no matter what.
The only solution to limiting that, will be
make people pay, so that won’t work.

All right, we make love free;
except it’s already free, it’s been free
forever. It’s sex people want and they’ve
always been prepared to pay for that,
and always will, so that won’t work.

I’m all in: we conquer death.
What’s money when you’re immortal?
We become gods, and you know the first
thing gods want is worship, idolatry, blood
sacrifice and anything deep fried, which
someone has to pay for, so we’re right
back to the start, aren’t we? That won’t work.

OK, I’m flat busted, nothing left, no need to escort
me from the table to make room for the players
but, let me leave you with this: perhaps all we
need to do is let those who can, feed themselves
but we can’t ignore the hungry, just so we can
keep the money; and we let everyone who can
own their home, live how they want to live
but no one should sleep on the street, outside
we can manage that; and if people are alone
or need help, perhaps they need more, maybe
support, protection, sometimes money, we
can manage that; because all we need to do
is dig into an endless supply of love, and that’s free.

More Poetry:

Paper time

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

Radish

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

The killing and dismemberment of Osiris

Gods are murdered in ritual,
with family in attendance.
If not as executioners, then moral support.
The god must be torn apart
thrown into all that is and is not.
Sister brides always grieve
journey to join the god together,
as he has always been put back together.

Mom on deck

Call for Mom.
She’s needed on deck;
no one else will do.
Who could possibly replace her?
Santa Claus or God?

Related

Paper time

Paper time

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

read more
Radish

Radish

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

read more

0 Comments

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *