My hair stands on end like a shock wall,
Waving and shouting at everyone else.
Morning bashes me with sharp bugle notes of light,
Empty sorrow tickles at my innards,
Trying to kick-start the machine again;
To twist the cogs and squeeze the tubes,
And spark the neuronal fire machine,
With electrical fervor and the will of contraption,
“Wake up and destroy the world!," it screams.
"Or at least some sector, so we can,
Light fires of unabashed enthusiasm,
Without complaints of conceptual arson.”
The machine pipes and churns, sparks and burns,
Gurgles chemicals and farts smoke,
And warms the visceral grease of energetic consumption.
The wires flare and the plumbing swells and courses,
And devices revel in their repetitive mania;
Tapes churn out and digital shapes and,
Characters are projected onto many shape-shifting surfaces,
Where their endless facets can fit and twist.
Manipulators grasp fuel modules,
Swerve and aim their cargoes into grind-o-matic mechanisms,
Where their essences can be filtrated and extracted;
Greasy fluids melt the strands and fragmentary,
Rubble and mush, unleashing energetic molecules,
While the projector screens mutate to accommodate,
The colors of satisfaction.
The devices continue oscillating with manic,
Intensity, searching for protein purity,
And carbohydrate clarity,
With which to inject power into bundled ropes of sinew and fabric,
So manipulators can continue squeezing, stroking,
And manipulating matter,
Bottling the scream of energy to,
Feed the machine so more tapes and,
Shapes and characters can emit themselves into the world,
And the archive can grow fatter,
with the thickness of experience.
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