Dilation

Working in this factory. Walk the painted strips eyes down, sensing more than seeing the forklifts speeding.

Don't look up.
Can't look up.

Head for another office, head for a Coke, head for fuel that was an animal to keep my engine burning, eyes down, forklifts moving.

Don't look up.
Can't look up.

Today hits me different as my skin has gone thin. Walk out on to the factory floor and forget to look down.

There there are: the machines.
The humans.

Assembly lines, a thousand people. Fluid motion, programmed, automated. Delicate and beautiful, perpetual, I think...then swoon.

There is no thought here. There is no music. No chaos. Everything is in a set pattern -- the motions of the machines and the humans alike -- and the delicacy fades, the beauty fades. I see slavery. I see consumption. I see the inevitable end of the world. This is not perpetual. This is entropy.

don't look

I am watching spirits be swallowed. I am watching senses decay. I am watching pride turn to shame turn to product turn to rust. I see no poetry.

shouldn't look up
shouldn't have looked up

I see the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen begetting the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen begetting the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen begetting the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen

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