the masters of the universe
strut and stride
around
the
unit
kind or cunts
in tight fitting poser waistcoats
or
new raspberry scrubs
and
mend the laid out faulty
with
their
talent and soft machine know-how
learned
and
stored
in electric jelly
and
huge
careful hands
i struggle to tear the cellophane on new free post-its
waiting
for
the
sandwich toaster
to
grill
me
my
cheese
at work
of
course
and
again
thinking about buddha and his noble beginnings
thinking about warhol and his pre-fame work
when
they
test
the
fire alarm and i know it must be thursday
or else it isnt
and
theres
a
fire
and i smelltaste the burnt flesh
where
the
surgeons are working
in
the room next door
and
i
look
for art and for sense
in the tumble stacks
of
plugs
and
pipes
ripe for ramming and jamming
in the feeble soft machines
but
its
all
too noisy here
to
skew
my eyes that way today
