Monday, 4 April 2016

Factory Living

Photo credits: Lucy Oldfield
They’ve given me a week to dismantle the machine
And piece it sensibly back together
To unhinge the line suspending cheeks
To crack the hands, spine, feet
Into something better.
I bring the wire of hair, for children try
Swinging from into the street
And invite individuals passing by
To touch the sinew
Tied to speech

It’s not often you get to feel a machine
To unreel the film behind the eyes
The brassy chest, each lungful tense
With breath
Like paint, the staring dries.
Look within the ribcage,
The circuit of the sagging heart
Your fingers find, arterial lines
Which light, still damp
Against your arm.

Roll up
The thighs and cross the legs
And see the drain of oil
Into the bowl
-          The opening below the brain –
They call it mouth,
That mortal hole

The nails they pick away are old
The frame plastic, a tongue of leather
Buttons blend into the skin
Which people press
And say ‘it’s better’

So many fallen into disrepair
An industry open now
 As an exhibit;
The walkways churned up with applause
These factories burn
And still we live in.

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