the chrysalis
broken drought
silent rebellion
ghosts of the living
atom to the planet
girl called novella

prisoners of progress

as sand runs through our fingers
the flame of knowledge is burning
as the fountain of life is slowing
the wheels of progress turning

within the walls of the foundry
where hammers fall on sheets of fire
to forge by hand the burning steel
their souls thrown onto the pyre

wailing sirens end the nightshift
hands of clockwork are unwound
from behind masks emerge faces
of weary workers homeward bound...

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outside they walk through driving rain
where droning engines choke and grind
sleepless eyes gaze through windscreens
as the factory neon lights fall far behind

the worker’s life is a minefield
the fragments of their fragile dreams
are blown across the working week
seven nights on ambient screens:

headache pain electric light television set
glowing bright the late movie b-grade shit
cigarettes routinely lit bloodshot eyes
pictures in red hammers beat the battered head
empty beer-cans pollute the floor dreams wait
beyond locked doors the wheels of progress
turn on and on and on and on and on and on to
the rhythm of a foreign song

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