Brief respite atop my porcelain throne,
I’m king of the degenerates.
Return to the clang and clatter of dropped
and raised hydraulic scorpion pincers.
Bend, lift, place, ride.
Shrill clarion cries form a sonorous
and imposing orchestra, like free jazz sped up
on feedback rewind. Complacent faces
from the crypt hook ‘round the borders
of the dimly reflected, slippery concrete surface.
The assassin who wields his clipboard dagger
approaches with a fistful of digits, latent
heat rising from his crew-cut demands.
Bend, lift, place, ride.
The drone of heartsick factory ballads
throbs gently within a clocked space-age craft
that delivers you into an ammonia-laced atmosphere.
When the garbled mash-up of horns
and grunts from grime covered case grippers
halts, it’s time to shuffle toward and bust
open the bulwark which reveals a blinding
incandescent freedom, but Crew Cut bellows
“Enjoy your hours until the digital clock
urges you to return to the killing floor.”
Bend, lift, place, ride.
