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,

Test

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.