Sure, poetry is bullshit, but it has no monopoly on bullshit and some of us happen to enjoy it, unless it's too pretentious, see poetry-review supra.
How about a poem about a machine?
Just loping down the street
It rattled and popped along
In no apparent rhythm,
Sounded more like fireworks
Than a motor.
With the wick turned up
It sounded like gunfire,
Pulling steadily up the gears,
Explosions more regular now,
With overtones of Steel-Drum
Bands, happy but impatient,
Longing to get on with
The business of speed.
One piston as big as a child’s fist,
Gas consumption of a mid-sized car,
Stand on it and watch the gas gauge
Roll counter-clockwise like a
Stop-watch in reverse.
With the engine in the Second-House
And Jupiter aligned with Mars,
Opening the throttle suddenly
The bike shoots forward
With enough force to throw
The incautious rider straight off the back.
Rev’s ascending, throttle at the stop,
The sound now of a steam-whistle
Woodwind blast, engine fully alive,
Quickly through the gears,
Bigger clouds of gas drawn in
To the inescapable gravity of the motor.
Indistinguishable explosions now
A ripping, terrified
High pitched Psycho scream.
Roll it off and the angry noise
Subsides, again the rattle
Like something deep inside has snapped,
Random pops and huge banging noises,
The Steel-Band now, after Midnight,
Drunk and celebratory,
Reduced again to a shambles
Of potential violence, almost like
It will fly to pieces at any moment.
That bike was hot.
When you turned it off it sizzled and crackled
For two minutes at least.
Written on a commuter van from Lopburi to Bangkok, July 21, 2008