Monday, 26 November 2012


Smoothly black
the funereal glide
hoves into view.

Somewhere inside
cogs turn, pistons heave,
oil sluices through.

Undertakers sidle.
Silk hats in laps.
Soft engines idle.

You say 'Perhaps
there may be...

Far above and free
of machinations
(the turn of screws,
the thump and slide),
smoke angles with swifts,
scatters into empty sky.

Keys turn, engines fire,
we light our cigarettes.
The anti-matter interface,
stoked ready for the next.

(Written in response to a submission request for poems on a theme of Soul and Machine)

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