27 May 2008

Capstan and Charnel




It is hard, but then again it always has been, to dream of green fields with all those pistons pumping. A lack of fresh air maybe or perhaps the denial of contemplative thought just leads to inevitable boredom. It is much like waddling duck like through syrup.
Soft.
Sweet.
Cloying.
A decaying principle that is set in reverential marble as if that chilled edifice makes it all the less corrupt and all the more swollen in its own self importance.
We chunder on.
Tic, poc, Clak. Shsssssss.
Steam driven by digit counter panes that calculate the evening with a horror of order, a mesmerist synapse template that acts like a bible of trite instructions.
Bible as babble. Babel for the boardroom.
The infant children are taken by their stout necks and placed upon its metallic back while being processed through a multitude of means that even Mephistopheles would envy. As singularly a grim a start as you could conceive of. Processed like peas having been ripped from their green pods and placed somewhere that spurns the creative gift and neglects to fill the void it leaves with anything less than the cold soul of industry.
A veritable spinning jenny of a wheel that hints at a spark of devilry. Of madness. Of…


Someone you know could need Thursday attention with reduced insertion fees plus plenty of wasteland chronicles.


But on we go. The fairground ride grinds out the tears that swell into laughter for what else is there to do but laugh in the face of such extreme lunacy? Cry? Don’t make me laugh. You put your mark, as a legible X, onto the paper. You could have raised your voice as one with the force of nature and screamed but all you do is whimper.
Then whine and whittle away like the solid souls you are. The belt keeps rumbling of course, oblivious to individual needs as it shreds such concepts in the teeth of its malice.
Control not comfort.
Conformity not creativity.
Are we the dead? Capstan and charnel bit offerings carved out of flesh but spat into steel.
We are the dead machine parts that bone cog the endless.
Tic, poc, Clak. Shsssssss.


2 comments:

TICTAC said...

left me breathless and speachless!
in awe!

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