Imagine yourself on a peripheral road.
There's dust all around, sunblurrs on the groundThe filthy heat smells of rubber and greaseFrom the future you've entered
the so-called Long Peace.
The man sits outside a service station,surrounded by mechanical creations
They're not machines even - more creatures With twisted metal features
Which the sunbathing man could repair
But he just sits and stares.
And feels the sun on his belly.
His nakedness is voluntary
For he's rolled up his tshirt
So he sits there and hurts.
Himself a creation, gathered from dust
This is his real life - but he must
Produce for the powers that be
His value is his productivity.
And yet he sits and exerts his free will
By being still.
Showing his belly to the emptiness around. When he's disturbed, it's not by a sound
It's less than a sound - a fragment
Which begins and ends in one moment
When a metal creation flashes by
Too fast to name or identify.The buzz of a fly - a tyre's hiss -
If silence had a sound it would be this.